The Fourth Choice
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". When Grace's life is threatened, Boyd drops everything to attempt to protect her, but there are unresolved issues between them that could easily lead them both into further danger... Complete. B/G. T for language. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_**Dedicated to** all the good ladies of the OHT and everyone who still  
enjoys this small but devoted fandom and this great 'ship as much as I do._

* * *

**The Fourth Choice**

by Joodiff

* * *

It's ridiculous, of course, given how far away he is, but just the sound of his voice, as deep and potent as ever, reassures and soothes her. The line is bad, but there's no mistaking the resolve in his tone as he eventually says, "Oh, for God's sake, Grace, just do exactly what they tell you, okay? It'll take me an hour or so to get back to Auckland and then I'll be on the first flight I can get."

So typical of the man, the instinct to simply drop everything and head straight back to London. It's gratifying and it's comforting, but defiantly she grips the phone a little harder and says, "Don't be stupid, Boyd. I'm fine. I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."

"It's not open for discussion."

Shivering slightly in the evening chill and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself, Grace shakes her head at the empty room. "This is silly; you're twelve thousand miles away."

"I'll be there, Grace. Just sit tight and do as you're told."

"It's a storm in a teacup," she tells him determinedly, knowing it's far from that. "Yes, I was shaken up, but – "

"I'm already heading out of the building," Boyd's voice says in her ear, and whether Grace likes it or not, that's the end of any kind of discussion. The subsequent farewells are brief, but despite her protests, she can't help the deep sense of relief that's slowly flooding through her. Boyd is on his way, and for many reasons that's a lot more comforting than the unnerving presence of the two armed police officers currently sitting in her kitchen.

-oOo-

To Boyd's credit, he'd made a real effort to hide it, but she'd very quickly realised he wasn't happy. Worse, Grace had quickly realised there were an increasing number of moments when he was genuinely _unhappy_; moments when nothing could quite disguise the melancholy, faraway look in his dark eyes. The harsh truth had broken her heart a little more every day simply because she'd been so very happy, so very content. Or she would have been if it hadn't been for the increasing distance and depression she'd sensed in him. She'd had everything she wanted – everything she'd wanted for a long, long time. She'd had _him_. All of him.

Naïvely, it hadn't ever occurred to Grace that Boyd would be unhappy. Not really. She'd expected him to mourn for his job, for his career – of course she had – but she'd genuinely believed that the opening of a brand new chapter in their lives would distract him, give him a new focus. Which, at first, it had, but as the days had turned relentlessly to weeks and the weeks had started to become months, it had become painfully obvious to her that it wasn't enough. _She_ wasn't enough. At times he'd been so restless she'd wanted to scream at him, at other times so withdrawn and lethargic that even screaming at him would have had precious little impact.

It hadn't suited him, the very ordinary, very domesticated life they'd established together. They'd both soon known it, and yet Boyd had resisted all attempts to discuss the matter. He'd remained as inordinately stubborn as ever and Grace had immediately suspected that he imagined that admitting there was a problem was tantamount to admitting failure, and it had seemed that he was either unwilling or unable to do that. But she'd very swiftly known that everything that was simmering under the surface would inevitably reach boiling point, and she'd known it would be sooner rather than later.

She just hadn't expected the confrontation to happen on an otherwise quiet autumn evening when everything had seemed very calm between them, nor had she expected the startling intensity of Boyd's sudden fury. She certainly hadn't expected the explosive sound of shattering glass as his whiskey tumbler hit the edge of her fireplace and smashed into tiny, glittering shards, and she hadn't expected the venomous force with which he'd slammed the front door behind him.

Torn between forbearance and indignation, she'd waited up for him, hoping that on his return they would finally be able to talk. But Boyd hadn't come back that night, or the next. Or the one after that.

-oOo-

Grace wakes alone, just as she has every single morning for over a year now. She's so used to it that she doesn't even glance at the empty space once occupied by her erstwhile lover. The mornings of waking and wondering just how and why things changed are very definitely a long way behind her. Besides, in the end it was Grace who deliberately chose to let go. There's one of those trite, hippyish phrases from way back when that describes her situation perfectly, but the days when she used to wake with it echoing endlessly in her mind are long gone, too. Very much like Peter Boyd himself.

Now he's coming back, exactly as he promised he would.

"_If you ever need me, Grace…"_

She sits up quickly, momentarily distracted by noises from downstairs. Quiet, domestic noises, not at all threatening. Her unwanted and only grudgingly tolerated houseguests moving around, she assumes.

Somewhere out there in the slowly-waking city there's a man who's determined to kill her if he possibly can. It's a coldly sobering thought. Not as sobering as the two bullet holes in the driver's door of her car, but incredibly sobering nonetheless.

Next to the bed, the telephone starts to ring. As instructed, Grace makes a slow mental countdown before picking up. Cautiously, she offers, "Hello?"

"Grace," a very familiar male voice says. "How are you? Everything all right?"

Despite herself, she smiles slightly. "Hi, Spence. Yes, everything's fine. Stop worrying."

"Huh," he says, his scepticism quite clear. "Listen, I've been onto Hewitt this morning – I've checked and double-checked, and there's been no sign of Rowse at any of the places he used to hang out."

"I told you," Grace says. "He's far too smart to go anywhere near any of his old haunts."

"We'll get him, Grace."

"I know," she replies, more to reassure him than because she actually believes it. Carefully, she continues, "Spence, I spoke to Boyd last night."

There's a disparaging and very telling snort on the other end of the line. "Sorry, but I really don't think the Kiwis can help us, Grace."

"He's on his way back to London."

Spencer's reply is an immediate and incredulous, "Oh, tell me you're not serious…?"

She sighs. "I know what you think, Spence, but it's nothing to do with you."

"Why the hell is he coming back? We don't need him."

"Spencer."

His voice is sharp. Hard. "No, Grace. No. He walked out on you for no bloody reason, and the next thing I hear is that he's buggering off to the other side of the world to join the CIB."

Exasperated, she asks, "How many times have we talked about this, Spence? It was me who told him to apply for the damned job. Now he's coming back, and that's that. You don't have to be pleased about it, but I don't want you causing any trouble. I've got enough to worry about without you pursuing some stupid grudge against Boyd."

"I just think – "

"That's enough, Spence," Grace says briskly, swinging her legs out of bed and getting to her feet. "Now, tell me exactly what Hewitt had to say."

-oOo-

Fuller, the older and stockier of the two armed protection officers currently assigned to her, is quite obviously not a happy man. Grace has some sympathy, of course, but not nearly enough to change her plans for the day. Obdurately, she says, "I always meet my niece for lunch on a Wednesday."

More-or-less physically barring her way, the big man nods sagely. "And it's a safe bet that Rowse knows that, Doctor. Please, be reasonable about this. We simply can't guarantee to protect you in such a big, open public space, and nor can we guarantee that Rowse won't cause casualties amongst innocent bystanders if he – "

"Not the way he does things," Grace says calmly, hitching her bag more comfortably onto her shoulder. "Michael Rowse is a very controlled, very calculating individual. He doesn't kill on impulse, he kills for sport. He kills because he enjoys it, Sergeant. The hunt, the planning, the detail, they're all very important to him."

"This is different," Fuller tells her despairingly. "This time his motive is revenge."

Grace shakes her head. "No. Revenge is only a very small part of why he's doing what he's doing. A fringe benefit, if you like. Certainly not enough for him to change his _modus operandi_."

Fuller doesn't move. "Doctor Foley, our orders are straight from the Home Office and they're very clear – we're to do everything we can to protect you until Rowse is located and detained. That includes taking you into protective custody if necessary."

Grace raises her eyebrows. "Oh, come _on_, Sergeant. A little extreme, don't you think?"

He remains quiet and phlegmatic. "I think you've already seen that you're in significant danger, Doctor. Trust me, cooperating with us really is the lesser of several evils."

"So what you're actually telling me," Grace says coolly, "is that I'm virtually under house arrest?"

Fuller looks down at her. "No, Doctor, what I'm telling you is that you're in clear and present danger and our orders are to do everything we can to ensure your safety."

"And that includes refusing to let me step outside my own front door, does it…?"

-oOo-

She remembers Michael Rowse very well indeed. Late thirties, smooth, arrogant. Initially very low on the CCU's list of possible suspects for the unsolved murder of a wealthy farmer and his two children, his first interview was almost just a formality. All of them, including Grace, had expected to quickly rule Rowse out of the investigation completely. Within minutes of meeting him, however, she'd cast a quick, shrewd glance at Boyd and had seen her own suspicions mirrored straight back at her. They'd known instantly, both of them, that Rowse was their man. Proving it had been far more difficult, but grim tenacity and sheer hard work had paid off, and barely six months after that initial interview Rowse had been sentenced to life imprisonment for a specimen count of eight meticulously planned murders. No-one involved with the case had ever doubted that the true cost of his cold brutality was much higher.

It wasn't her testimony that ultimately convicted him, but Grace clearly remembers the way he stared unflinchingly at her as she gave her evidence and then responded calmly to a very flimsy cross-examination from a defence that was already in complete disarray. He'd watched her steadily, with no hint of aggression, as if he was simply deeply interested in everything she had to say about him and his mental state. It hadn't frightened her, but something about his stillness, his attentiveness, had made a strong and lasting impression on her.

No-one involved in his trial and conviction – least of all Grace – had ever imagined he would somehow manage to escape from the back of a broken-down prison van a little over seven years later.

-oOo-

The text is very simple. It's not even a threat. Two words, "Hello, Grace."

"'Pay As You Go' number," Fuller confirms within the hour. "Cheap phone, cash sale in Hammersmith. The CCTV's being checked right now, but – "

" – it's Rowse," Grace finishes for him with a nod. "He's just reminding us that he's out there. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he'd already dumped the phone."

Fuller nods in agreement. He says bluntly, "DCS Hewitt is currently talking to someone from the Home Office, Doctor. I know it's not what you want to hear, but I think you'd better go upstairs and pack an overnight bag."

"I'm not leaving this house," Grace tells him grimly, getting up from her chair and unconsciously starting to pace the dining room that has become an unofficial operations room. "And before you accuse me of being a foolish, stubborn old woman, you need to properly consider the way Rowse does things. He's meticulous, organised. Part of his plan relies on knowing exactly where I am – "

"Absolutely, which is why I think – "

"You've never been a detective have you?" Grace asks without hostility.

Fuller looks slightly bemused by the question. "No, ma'am."

She nods and explains quietly, "Most criminal investigations resemble a jigsaw puzzle, Sergeant. Sometimes there are lots of random pieces that can slowly be fitted together to make a complete picture and sometimes there are very few pieces and the picture doesn't emerge until later. This time we have a fair number of the pieces, and some of them are our knowledge of exactly how Rowse will proceed while things appear to be going to plan for him. While he knows where I am, his actions are entirely predictable and therefore much easier to counter."

"Doctor Foley – "

Grace waves his words aside. "Let me talk to DCS Hewitt."

-oOo-

She's nowhere near stupid enough not to be afraid. A convicted murderer Grace has good reason to believe has already killed more than a dozen people has – quite literally – set his sights on her, and she knows he will be a serious threat to her safety until he's found and returned to captivity. Rowse won't simply get bored and give up, won't shrug his shoulders and choose another, easier target. Grace knows he's enjoying what he's doing, and she knows that every obstacle in his path will simply increase his sense of satisfaction. He's not going to weigh the odds and retreat, he's going to wait for as long as he needs to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. It's a game, one he lives for. She doubts he's considered anything beyond the methodically planned and executed kill.

The shots fired at her moving vehicle weren't a mistake, they were an announcement. A signal. Rowse had no intention of wounding her, much less of killing her. Not then. No point in killing unwary, unsuspecting prey that isn't terrified.

It's past midnight now, and she's lying in bed wondering how long it will be before Rowse makes his next move. There are armed officers with her in the house, uniformed officers standing guard outside it. God alone knows what the neighbours think is going on. As long as Hewitt holds his nerve, it will be Rowse who's forced to break the current stalemate. She wonders how he'll do it. A direct move, or something altogether more subtle?

She's too old for all this. Semi-retirement wasn't supposed to include a significant threat to her life.

How close is he? A mile away? More? Less?

Grace isn't aware of finally dozing off into a light and restless sleep, but as she startles awake she realises she must have done exactly that. The glowing hands of the small clock by her bed tell her that it's now just a little past three in the morning and she guesses it's the commotion downstairs that roused her. She knows perfectly well who's responsible even before she hears his impatient, indignantly raised voice.

-oOo-

He looks good. As first thoughts go, it's not the most appropriate, given the situation, but he does look good. Fit, tanned and bearded, and even sideways on she can see he looks a damned sight less haunted and careworn than he did the last time she saw him. Somehow she always knew that New Zealand would absolutely suit him. As Grace quietly walks down the stairs he's still barking angrily at Fuller who's looking extremely harassed but remarkably unintimidated. A tough, experienced officer, it seems it takes far more than a tired and belligerent former Met Superintendent to unnerve him.

Close to the foot of the stairs, she says calmly, "Boyd."

He turns to face her, and she sees – clearly – the depth of fear and concern that the bristling aggression is masking. As she descends the last couple of stairs she wonders inanely what the etiquette is for greeting a former lover in such bizarre circumstances. It doesn't appear that Boyd thinks about it at all, or if he does, he's not predisposed to dwell on it too much. His greeting is fierce and impulsive – very much like the man himself. It's a little startling, the sudden bear-hug Grace finds herself swept into, but she can't remember another time when she's been so disinclined to put up any resistance. It's familiar and unfamiliar, and for a moment Grace allows herself to simply cling tightly to him.

Fuller clears his throat loudly. "Doctor Foley…?"

"I told you," she says, aware that her voice is slightly muffled by the breadth of Boyd's chest. "I told you to expect him."

"We need clearance from the Home Office to admit any visitors, Doctor," Fuller replies obstinately.

Boyd answers for her. "Like fuck you do. _Sergeant_."

-oOo-

"I'm just about done in," he says, running his fingers through his hair, and then collapsing into the chair in the corner of her bedroom. The chair where once upon a time he used to casually throw his clothes at the end of the day. "And I've been through so many bloody time-zones in the last twenty-four hours that my body-clock's completely screwed. Give it to me in words of one syllable, okay?"

Grace does. At least, she genuinely does her best, finishing with, "Hewitt's still working on the theory that he has an accomplice, but you know Rowse – he always worked alone. There's no fun in sharing the sport with someone else."

"What a complete fuck-up."

"Succinct," Grace says, watching him as he closes his eyes. "but essentially correct."

"So what's the great master plan?"

"I managed to persuade Hewitt to let me stay put for now, but he's jittery about it. I think they're going to go down the protective custody route sooner rather than later."

Boyd opens his eyes again. "Which, you, of course, are going to object vociferously to."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Obviously. But this isn't about me, is it?"

Grace glares at him. "I'm not going into protective custody, Boyd. I'd far rather take my chances with Rowse."

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?"

Boyd studies her for a few moments before saying, "Let's just wait and see, shall we? Maybe Hewitt will pull his head out of his fucking arse and actually find the little bastard."

"So eloquently put."

He grins tiredly. "You know me."

Grace nods. "Yes I do, and I'm really not liking the direction I suspect your thoughts are going in. You don't have jurisdiction here anymore, remember? You're a Kiwi now."

"Bollocks am I. And right now, my thoughts aren't going much further than how comfortable I remember that bed being."

Perched on the edge of the bed in question, Grace snorts. "You can forget that idea straight away."

Boyd groans in response. "Have a heart, Grace, I'm an old man and I've just flown halfway round the world for you…"

"On your own initiative. You can use the bed in the spare room if you like."

"Thanks," Boyd says, his tone heavily sarcastic.

She smiles sweetly at him. "You're very welcome."

Of course, in the end they grudgingly compromise. Boyd sleeps where he is in the chair, and she lies awake on what was once her side of the bed and tries not to remember the way things were between them before the fatal cracks started to appear.

-oOo-

Grace wakes first, and she wakes to the sound of gentle but persistent snoring. Lifting her head from the pillow, she looks at the long-limbed figure sprawled uncomfortably in the chair, and she's surprised to find that it's affection rather than irritation that wells most strongly in her. In the end, the last goodbye was a remarkably civilised affair, given the circumstances and their long history of confrontation and argument, but it was extremely painful – for both of them – and from that day on she never really believed she would ever see him again, despite all the vehement promises he made. Realising that she's still so very fond of him makes Grace feel… vulnerable. More vulnerable than knowing she's in very real physical danger from Michael Rowse.

The snoring has stopped. Still, she startles when she finds herself staring into deep, dark eyes that regard her quizzically from the other side of the room. His voice thick with sleep, Boyd says, "You're jumpy."

"I wonder why?" Grace retorts sardonically.

"Christ," he says as he attempts to sit up straight. "My back's killing me…"

Not a great surprise. Trying to sound solicitous, she asks, "How has your back been?"

"Better."

"That'll be the mild climate."

"That'll be the great lady acupuncturist in Freemans Bay."

It might be a gentle gibe. If it is, Grace is not rising to it. "Acupuncture? You? Good God."

"You should try it, Grace. Very good for – "

Whatever Boyd is about to say is lost forever in the loud, staccato retort of a single gunshot and the resounding chaos that immediately follows it.

-oOo-

Fuller is dead on the kitchen floor, a neat, blackened hole in the centre of his forehead. Grace thinks he looks faintly puzzled, but that might just be her imagination. Sightless hazel eyes stare impassively up at the ceiling. There's a pool of blood around his head, and tiny spatters of blood, bone and tissue decorate the far wall indicating that the bullet's exit wound is probably considerably larger and messier than its entry wound. Grace can't quite stop staring at him.

"Why wasn't anyone watching the railway line?" Boyd demands.

Hewitt turns away from his intent scrutiny of the bullet hole in the kitchen window to glare at him. "It's not my policy to discuss operational matters with – "

"Don't play fucking stupid games with me, Hewitt. I was locking up psychos like Rowse while you were still at Hendon learning how to polish your boots properly. Why the hell wasn't the railway line under observation?"

"There was a uniformed officer on the footbridge," Hewitt says sullenly. "And another one down on the footpath to the north."

Boyd seems far from mollified by the information. "Well, either they were fast a-fucking-sleep, or he climbed up the embankment and took the shot from there. Either way, it's gross incompetence on someone's part."

"He had a wife," Grace says quietly. "A wife and two young kids. The youngest one's only just started school. He was telling me about them yesterday."

The sudden silence is only broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the agitated wailing of distant sirens.

"The SOCOs will be here soon," Hewitt says abruptly. "We'll need statements from both of you."

-oOo-

"Well?" Grace asks when they are finally alone together.

Boyd looks straight at her, dark brows drawn down. "We get you the hell out of here, Grace."

"Just like that?"

He grimaces. "No, not _just like that_. But we get you out. Tell me you really trust Hewitt to protect you?"

Thinking of the dead man in the kitchen, she shakes her head slowly. A surge of common-sense makes her say, "It's not just a question of trusting him or not, though, is it? It's question of manpower, resources…"

Boyd makes a disparaging noise. "Tell that to Fuller. Or his wife and kids."

Grace winces and sits down on the edge of the sofa. Beyond the closed door there are loud, officious voices, one of them recognisably Hewitt's. As calmly as she can, she asks, "So. Do we assume Rowse is watching the house?"

Boyd is leaning contemplatively on the mantelpiece. He looks over his shoulder at her. "We don't _assume_ anything, Grace, you know that."

"So what _do_ we do? We can't just walk out of here, right under Hewitt's nose."

"Actually," he says slowly, "I think that's exactly what we're going to do."

"You've got a plan," she says, not sure if it's an accusation or not.

"I've got a plan," Boyd confirms, starting back into motion. "Call Spence, tell him to pick me up at the end of the road in about twenty minutes."

It doesn't seem the right time to tell him that the greeting he's likely to get from his former subordinate will be barely lukewarm at best, and quite possibly a _lot_ more glacial. Instead she asks, "Why?"

"Just do it, Grace. Go upstairs and pack a bag. Necessities only – we're travelling light. And if Hewitt tries to get you to leave with him, do whatever it takes to stall him."

Grace eyes him suspiciously. "What are you up to, Boyd…?"

-oOo-

Spencer arrives at the house almost exactly an hour later. He walks in full of the kind of loud bluster and bravado more usually associated with Boyd himself, and he's followed by a slim female forensic technician in white coveralls, one who immediately seems strangely familiar to Grace, despite most of her face being obscured by a protective mask. Spencer marches along the hallway towards the kitchen, barking questions at startled junior officers and causing so much chaos and disruption that eventually Hewitt himself appears on the scene, his expression one of grim displeasure.

Grace doesn't see what happens next. A hand on her arm tugs her firmly but gently back into the living room, and she suddenly finds herself face-to-face with the technician who arrived with Spencer. The mask is quickly pulled down, the hood pushed back, and she finds herself looking at Katrina Howard, the only junior officer ever to be mysteriously removed from the CCU on direct orders from New Scotland Yard. Softly, she says, "Kat? What's going on?"

"You're asking me," the young woman says with a slight shrug. "Boyd said it was best if I didn't ask too many questions. Help me out of this, will you? You're supposed to put it on and walk out of here with Spence before Hewitt works out what the hell's going on."

"You've spoken to Boyd?"

"Only on the phone. I'm supposed to be over in Shoreditch questioning a robbery suspect."

"I see. But…?"

Kat shrugs again. "Never was much good at doing what I was told, was I?"

Grace suppresses the urge to hug her former colleague. "Thanks, Kat."

-oOo-

It's absurdly easy. Spencer is virtually ordered out of the building by an angry Hewitt, and Grace, masked and with the coverall's hood pulled up, simply walks out with him, the contents of her overnight bag hurriedly bundled into the lightweight aluminium briefcase brought in by Kat. There's so much activity, and so many other figures in identical coveralls milling around that no-one spares her a second glance, even when she gets into Spencer's car. It's not the subtlest of plans, but between them they carry it off with considerable aplomb.

Not removing her mask as they drive out of the normally quiet residential street, Grace says, "Thanks, Spence."

He spares her the briefest of glances. "I'm only going along with this because Hewitt's got no bloody idea what he's doing."

"And Boyd does?"

"When it comes to Rowse, I trust Boyd a damn sight more than I trust that jumped-up…" Spencer says, letting the end of the sentence trail. "Look, Grace, I don't know where he's taking you, and to be honest that's probably just as well, but for God's sake don't let him try to play games with Rowse. Any sign of him, and you call the cavalry straight away, okay?"

"I will," Grace promises, finally removing the mask and hood. She hesitates, then risks, "It went all right? You and Boyd?"

"If you mean, did I resist punching his teeth down his throat, then, yeah, it went all right."

Grace is silent for a moment. Honesty makes her finally say, "It wasn't all his fault, you know. It takes two to make – or break – a relationship."

"Why do you always defend him, Grace?" Spencer asks wearily.

"Because he's fundamentally a good man. You've always been far too quick to judge him."

"Maybe because I'm not completely blind to his faults."

Grace shakes her head. "And you really think I am?"

He shrugs as he slows for a junction. "Maybe, maybe not."

-oOo-

It takes them far longer to rendezvous with Boyd than Grace expects, mainly because Spencer takes a very long and circuitous route, apparently randomly zig-zagging his way towards the river before finally crossing over into Southwark. Grace seriously doubts anyone could possibly have followed them, but Spencer cautiously parks up and waits for a good ten minutes before finally heading for a narrow street not far from the Elephant and Castle. Boyd is waiting for them, seated in the driving seat of an elderly and nondescript saloon that has very definitely seen better days. She doesn't ask where he obtained the car, but she doubts any documentation was supplied with what can only have been a swift cash transaction. Coppers and villains. They both seem to instinctively know where to quickly get hold of such a vehicle.

What has, until now, felt like an exciting and slightly surreal adventure suddenly seems frightening and all-too real. Both men are as tense as Grace has ever seen them, and they communicate in short, direct bursts, neither of them bothering with any unnecessary words. The fear's become deeply lodged in the pit of her stomach, and she wonders if she's really doing the right thing, wilfully turning her back on official protection. It's too late now. Spencer passes her a small, unlovely phone, a cheap brand with no unnecessary features. He says gravely, "You call me, Grace. If you even get the slightest sense that something's not right, you call me."

"I will," she promises. "Thanks, Spence. For everything."

"I'll see you soon," he tells her solemnly. "Hopefully Rowse will get careless when he realises you've given him the slip."

Not something Grace would be prepared to put money on, but there's a slim chance Spencer's right and their unexpected gambit will draw the man out from wherever he's hiding. Spencer hugs her quickly, gives Boyd a final curt nod and gets back into his car. He drives away without another word, his part in her escape done. She watches him out of sight and then turns to Boyd to ask, "Where are we going?"

The response is laconic. "Kent."

Not the answer Grace expected. Bemused, she asks, "Kent?"

Boyd opens the battered saloon's passenger door for her. "You'll see."

-oOo-

When they head north just before Sittingbourne, Grace is fairly sure she knows where they're going. The road signs only reinforce her hunch. Boyd is driving steadily, sedately, even, obviously not wanting to attract any undue attention. She casts him a knowing look. "I thought you hated Sheerness?"

"I do."

Something in his tone makes her say, "Oh, please tell me your idea of a safe hideout isn't a draughty caravan on the edge of the North Sea?"

"Would I do that to you, Grace?"

"You might," she says darkly. "You have a very warped sense of humour."

"Only in your opinion."

Banter. The mainstay of their relationship – personal and professional – for years. They're very good at it, always have been. It surprises her, though, just how easily they have fallen back into the familiar pattern, given the circumstances. They're on the Kingsferry Bridge now, crossing the Swale, and as she gazes out at the water below them she's struck by a deep and poignant sense of regret. When this… nightmare… comes to an end, he will doubtless go back to his new life without a single qualm. Masochistically, she reluctantly asks, "So how's the CIB?"

Boyd looks faintly bemused, as if his thoughts are so far away from such things that the question makes no immediate sense to him. He hunches a shoulder slightly. "Different."

"Different good, or different bad?"

Again, he shrugs slightly. "Just different. The crime rate in New Zealand is much lower than here, and it's still slowly falling, but there are endemic problems, particularly in urban areas."

"Auckland's hardly New York, though, is it?"

"Thank God."

Sometimes Grace tries to picture the life he has now, tries to imagine all the things that the few emailed photographs she's seen simply can't convey. The modest but attractive rented house in Pakuranga, the colleagues he occasionally references in short, disjointed emails, the investigations he's been involved in. He's not coming home when his tenure ends, she's certain of that. He doesn't believe there's anything for him to come home for. Her fault. She did everything she could to ensure he believed it – and kept believing it. Trying to shake the advancing tendrils of depression, she says, "Maybe I'll come out for a holiday one day."

"You've been saying that for months, Grace."

She misses him. He's been such an important part of her life for so long. Deliberately changing the subject, Grace asks, "So where _are_ we going?"

"Shellness. Well, as good as. We used to go there every summer when I was a kid. My uncle had a holiday place in the middle of nowhere. Turns out it's still there. Bit basic and a bit ramshackle, but beggars can't be choosers."

She sighs. "Oh, this just keeps getting better and better."

-oOo-

Perversely, it's almost a case of love at first sight. It shouldn't be – Grace is as fond of her creature comforts as the next woman – but it is. The house, if that's really the best word to describe the dilapidated single-storey wooden structure, is set a decent way back from the road just a short distance from the private hamlet of Shellness itself. Behind it are flat, water-logged saltmarshes, wild and uninhabited. Towards the hamlet itself there are a few similar buildings just in sight, but there's a definite air of remote isolation that's strongly reinforced by the distant sound of waves and the odd plaintive cry of a seagull. It's really too late in the year for most day-trippers and holidaymakers, but when she climbs out of the car Grace is surprised to find that although the breeze coming across the road from sea is brisk, it's not unpleasantly cold.

There's no garden to speak of, no driveway, no perimeter fence. A small upturned wooden boat – obviously very rotten – and a few stray, unconnected posts may or may not mark the property's legal boundary. What really catches her eye, though, is an eccentric collection of driftwood and beach treasures; those, and the untidy, weather-beaten sheds and lean-tos that give the place the look of a small, defiant shanty town. It seems inconceivable that the busy, bustling centre of London isn't much more than forty miles away.

"It's like a different world," she says with a small, shaky laugh.

"I told you. Middle of bloody nowhere. It's busier down here in the summer, of course, but at this time of year... Here," Boyd tosses her a large single key. "Go and open up while I empty the car."

Inside, the house is surprisingly neat and tidy; small, of course, but comfortable enough. Besides the single main room with its squat wood-burner, Grace finds a bedroom, complete with a bed that's either a very large single or a very small double, and a bathroom that's basic, but clean and obviously only recently re-decorated. Clearly someone still uses the place as an occasional retreat. She decides not to dwell on the obvious question of their sleeping arrangements. There's a big, scuffed leather couch in the main room, one that looks comfortable enough to pass a night or two on. No television, she realises, wandering out of the bedroom, but there are several shelves filled with an eclectic range of books – everything from cheap thrillers to scholarly guides to the local flora and fauna. There's no separate kitchen, just a small tiled area at one end of the main room that includes a sink, a fridge and a microwave, and a small electric cooker of uncertain vintage. Not exactly the lap of luxury, but when Grace looks out of the window that looks out over the marsh, she finds she doesn't care. The flat, watery landscape isn't exactly stunningly beautiful, but it certainly has something.

"Rowse may be a canny bastard," Boyd says, dumping carrier bags filled with provisions on the small square wooden table behind her, "But he'd have to be bloody psychic to find us here."

"Let's hope so."

"He can't hide forever, Grace."

"Neither can we," she points out, turning to look out of the window again.

Boyd moves up behind her, and she senses an uncharacteristic moment of hesitancy in him before he gently puts his arms around her waist. Evidently he's just as unsure as she is where the boundaries lie between them after everything that's happened. He says quietly, "They'll get him, and soon. Cops don't like cop-killers, you know that."

"Thanks, Boyd," she says, slightly amused by the unintentional implication.

He sighs audibly and his arms drop away. "I just meant that it's not going to be just a localised operation anymore. Every plod in the south east is going to be looking for him now."

Grace misses the comforting physical contact immediately. Despises herself for it. She was strong enough to tell him to go, to look him straight in the eye and lie to him, so she's surely strong enough not to need him now. She looks out at the marshland and makes an effort to gather her thoughts. Behind her, she can hear him moving around, unpacking the thin plastic bags. Methodical. Always very methodical on the domestic front. It used to make her laugh. She turns to speak to him and freezes immediately.

Boyd is in his shirtsleeves now, casual jacket untidily draped over the back of one of the spindly, unattractive dining chairs, and the black pistol grip sticking out of the waistband of his dark trousers is brutally apparent. Shocked, she stares at the small of his back, the cold reality of their situation suddenly biting hard. Boyd is armed. Boyd, who was every bit as qualified as Spencer to carry a weapon, but always chose not to, is armed.

He half turns and frowns at her expression. "Grace…?"

-oOo-

"It was Fuller's," he explains impatiently. "For God's sake, Grace…"

"You took a dead man's gun? Oh, you're unbelievable sometimes, Boyd."

"Damn right I did. And yes, if it comes down to it, I'll shoot first and ask questions later."

"You're an idiot," she accuses loudly. There's no-one to overhear her. They are standing outside at the rear of the house, glaring at each other. She stabs a finger at him. "You never stop to think, do you? What's the first thing Hewitt's going to do as soon they realise Fuller's gun's missing from the scene? I'll tell you, shall I? He's going to do everything he possibly can to find us."

"Good luck to him," Boyd growls. "No-one knows where the hell we are. Not Spence, not Kat; no-one."

"He'll find us, Boyd. The only question is whether he finds us before Rowse does."

He shakes his head. The sea breeze ruffles his silver hair, plucks at his shirt. "No-one's going to find us. This place belongs to my cousin now, and he visits it about twice a year at most."

"We have to go back," she announces decisively.

"Great plan, Grace," he says sarcastically. "We go back now and we're both sitting ducks. No, we stay here, we keep our heads down and we wait for Spence to tell us Rowse has been picked up."

"And how long is that going to take?"

He shrugs. "A day or two, who knows?"

"And what do you suggest we do, stuck out here on our own for forty-eight hours?" Grace snaps at him angrily. "And don't you _dare_ answer that or I swear I'll – "

Boyd holds his hands up, palms towards her. His crooked grin is faded and weary but still engaging. "Be gentle with me, Grace. I'm still very jet-lagged."

* * *

_Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

The woman in the bedroom mirror looks old. Old, strained and tired. Grace regards her reflection sourly and tries to remember the last time she looked in a mirror without wondering when it was that the years really started to make their mounting presence known. Some days she finds herself wondering whether the increasing time and effort required to combat the combined effects of all those long years is really worth it. Perhaps it's time to just irritably surrender to the inevitable. Or not, she thinks now, as she hears movement in the other room. Vanity is not one of her great weaknesses, but the man on the other side of the closed door quite possibly _is_.

"Grace?" his voice says on cue. "Are you going to come and eat something?"

She determinedly turns her back on the mirror. She is far, far more than the weary reflection it shows her. She knows it – and Boyd knows it, too. She doesn't want to pursue that thought. Potentially far too painful. Mentally shaking herself, she goes back into the main room. Lunch – a very basic affair – awaits her. It doesn't help keep the memories at bay, and perhaps her voice is a little too sharp as she says, "Oh, you really know how spoil me, Boyd."

His expression – gently amused – changes abruptly. Hardens into something much more brittle. He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

They eat in silence, the atmosphere between them heavy and strained. There are too many things passing unsaid between them, too many silent questions with unclear answers hanging in the air.

It's all her fault, Grace thinks. Her fault for telling the one brutal lie that might just be the biggest mistake she ever made.

"When we were kids," Boyd says abruptly, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair, "My sister used to sleep in here on the couch, and my brother and I used to share a tent outside. No-one worried about letting kids camp out in those days."

It's an offer of a truce. Grace nods. "I remember."

"Most nights, James and I used to wait until it was as quiet as the grave, then we'd sneak down onto the beach and go night fishing."

Deliberately incredulous, she says, "Fishing? You?"

"I was eight, Grace."

She smiles and admits, "I must have been in my early teens. God, it was a completely different world back then, wasn't it?"

"Simpler," Boyd agrees.

"I wanted to be a teacher," Grace tells him after a moment, her mind wandering in the past. "English, maybe. Or geography."

Boyd looks sceptical. "Your geography's appalling, Grace."

Not at all offended, she nods. "I know. What about you?"

He grins at her from the other side of the table. "Oh, I wanted to be a pirate. Or a secret agent."

"Not an engine driver like most little boys?"

"Boring," he says with a dismissive shake of his head. "Actually, I don't think I really thought too much about it, to be honest. I suppose it was always just assumed I'd study law like everyone else in the family."

"But you turned out to be the black sheep."

Boyd stands up. "Naturally. Fancy a walk…?"

-oOo-

The beach is a harsh mixture of coarse sand and shingle, and there's not another living soul to be seen on it in either direction. The breeze is keener by the water's edge, but still not disagreeably chilly. Looking towards the motley collection of buildings to the south that form Shellness, Grace says, "It's weird. One minute I feel like I'm just taking a short break by the sea, the next I remember…"

He buffets her gently with his shoulder. "It's going to be all right. If Hewitt doesn't find him, Spence will. Couple of days from now you'll be back home safe and sound and this will all seem like a bad dream."

"Or I'll be lying in a coffin," she says darkly.

Boyd shakes his head. "Not going to happen, Grace."

"I wish I had your certainty."

"Just trust me, hmm?"

"How many times have I heard you say that over the years? It never ends well."

He raises his eyebrows at her. "When did you become so cynical?"

"When – " she starts in automatic response, and quickly bites down on the rest of the words. "It doesn't matter."

Boyd stops walking and he snags her arm to bring her to a halt next to him. "Just say it, Grace."

She shakes him off irritably. "I told you, it doesn't matter."

"Fine."

Instantly regretting her sharpness, Grace says, "Peter…"

He's already walking again, straight-backed and affronted. "No, you're right. It doesn't matter. I seem to remember you making your feelings quite plain last year."

Stung, she snaps, "_You_ walked out on _me_, remember?"

Boyd looks back at her. "I came back. But you didn't want to know."

_I lied,_ Grace thinks, but thankfully the words don't break free. She says, "Oh, let's just walk."

-oOo-

"I'm going to call Spence," she announces as they approach the small wooden house again. "Find out what's going on."

Boyd nods curtly. "Keep it brief, and don't forget to turn your phone off again immediately."

She waits until he's retreated inside before pulling out the cheap phone, switching it on and dialling the familiar number. Spencer answers quickly, a note of strain in his voice as he says, "Grace? You okay?"

"Fine," she tells him. "Spence – "

"Listen," he interrupts her. "Fuller's Glock is missing. Hewitt thinks – "

"Boyd has it. Yes, I know."

"Fuck. The spare mag's missing, too. Look, tell me where you are and – "

"I can't, Spence," she says simply. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"Grace, if Rowse finds you before we do – "

"Boyd will shoot him," she says calmly, cutting him off once more. "I know."

"Or he'll shoot Boyd – and then you. Grace, please, just tell me where you are and I'll come on my own, I swear."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I'll call you again soon, Spence."

Ending the call, Grace follows Boyd's terse instructions and swiftly switches the phone off. It's not a bad time to be embracing some of his natural paranoia, she feels. Putting the phone away, she goes into the house. Boyd is standing at the window looking out in the direction they've just come. At his questioning look she says, "They know you've got Fuller's gun."

He shrugs. "They'd be piss-poor police officers if they hadn't worked that out by now."

"Boyd, are we really doing the right thing?"

Sounding unusually patient, he says, "You know we are. Hewitt may have access to the files, but he doesn't know Rowse like we do. He's a hunter, Grace, isn't that what you said at his trial? A man who kills people for sport. Not because he has a political or criminal agenda, but just because he enjoys it. No show of force is going to frighten him off, you know that. This is the best way."

Settling on the worn leather sofa, Grace sighs. "You make it sound so logical – "

"That's because it is."

Lapsing into silence, she glances round the room, searching for a distraction. It takes her a minute to realise that she's being watched again. Unnerved by Boyd's quiet, intense scrutiny, she says, "So tell me about Pakuranga."

"I think you'd like it," he replies, leaning back against the narrow windowsill. "It's a suburb, but there are some nice houses, particularly by the shore."

"Do you miss London?"

"All the time," Boyd admits gravely. "But Auckland's a great city, and the job's an interesting challenge."

"I thought you said the crime rate was dropping over there?"

"We still have murders and serious crimes that require investigation, Grace, even in Te Ika a Māui."

There's a sudden animation in his tone and expression that makes her remember exactly why she did what she did all those long months ago. He wasn't ready for retirement then, and it seems he's not ready for it now. Relocating to the other side of the world has bought him a few more precious years in harness, and despite her own regrets, when she sees the subtle change in him as he talks about the life he's built for himself without her, Grace is glad.

_If you love something…_

She banishes the stupid saying quickly from her mind. She asks, "Still not tempted to apply for citizenship, then?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Residency suits me just fine. So what about you? Given up on the idea of going back to fulltime consultancy?"

"I think I've more than earned the right to rest on my laurels, Boyd. Besides, I like being able to pick and choose."

"You know they're talking about re-establishing a dedicated cold case unit in the Met?"

"I'd heard a few whispers to that effect. It won't be the same."

"So you wouldn't be tempted?"

"No," she says honestly. "No, I wouldn't. Not on a permanent basis, anyway. Far too intense."

– _and far too many memories._

-oOo-

She remembers the excitement of being involved in something so new, so experimental. Remembers how passionate Peter Boyd was, how hard he worked to convince her that joining the embryonic CCU was not just a good career move, but a chance to really make a difference on a daily basis. She remembers how impressed she'd been by his commitment, his vision. She'd liked him from their very first meeting. Hadn't been blind to his faults and his foibles, whatever Spencer's opinion, but she'd seen something in him that had stayed with her for years – and remains with her now – an honesty, a strong dedication to something noble and just. A flawed man, but a man who wasn't – isn't – afraid to stand up and be counted.

It's evening now, and as the sky gets darker and they eat the second meal in their hideaway, Grace finds herself looking at him and remembering those early days when money was tight, resources were limited, and the CCU owed most of its initial success to the sheer bloody-minded tenacity of its unpredictable commander. Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. "You're very contemplative tonight."

"I was thinking back," she tells him, putting down her knife and fork and picking up her half-empty wine glass. "You really worked hard to prove that the CCU could be more than just a time-limited experiment, didn't you?"

"We all did, Grace," he tells her solemnly. "Don't tell me you've forgotten all those ridiculously long hours we worked with Christie forever breathing down our necks?"

She can't help smiling fondly. "Oh, I always rather liked Ralph."

"Only because he enjoyed hauling me over the coals at every possible opportunity."

"As I said, I always rather liked him."

"I seem to remember the feeling being more than mutual," Boyd says dryly.

Grace chuckles softly. "Jealousy, Boyd?"

"Not at all," he replies smoothly. "It just occurs to me that – "

A noise from outside, loud and unexpected, startles them both into absolute silence. Grace's heart starts to beat in a fast, panicky rhythm and she feels her palms go immediately cold and clammy. She stares straight at Boyd. He doesn't say a word, doesn't need to. The slightest incline of his head is instruction enough. _Stay here,_ the motion orders her. _Stay here and don't move…_

He silently gets to his feet, and Grace isn't surprised to see that the Glock has appeared in his hand – apparently from nowhere. He pulls the slide back, the movement deft and calm, and he walks silently towards the only external door. She watches him, her heart still hammering fiercely in her chest and all manner of stupid, random thoughts cascading through her head. It's stupid, but there's a perverse sense of relief rising inside her. In moments the whole nightmare could finally be over, one way or another. She's tempted to close her eyes, to quietly accept whatever's going to happen, but a far stronger part of her wants to see… everything. She thinks of Fuller, dead on her kitchen floor, that neat round hole in his forehead; she thinks of all the things that could have been, that should have been.

Boyd's hand is on the light switch, and quite suddenly the room goes dark. Very, very dark, not the quasi-dark of London streets at night. He eases the door open, and then she can see him as a dark shadow deliberately keeping to one side of the encroaching rectangle of thin moonlight. Grace thinks she hears a slight scuffle from outside, and her heart and stomach both lurch, but she forces herself to hold position, to remain still and silent. She feels like they're the last people left alive, like they're alone and lost in a big, empty world full of terrible lurking dangers. Boyd slips out into the night and disappears, and she grips the edge of the table hard, waiting for the inevitable gunshot – or shots – that will determine everything.

She can hear the waves on the shingle on the other side of the road, but very little else. Certainly no human noises, hostile or otherwise. As she gets to her feet, her imagination starts to work against her, and she pictures Boyd succumbing to a quick, sharp blow from behind; pictures Rowse prowling stealthily towards the door, rifle in hand, pictures –

"Grace?" Boyd's voice calls quietly, and the lights come back on, making her blink hard. "It's okay… it was just a bloody fox…"

She's shivering. But that's okay, because Boyd is warm and real and very definitely alive as she gratefully accepts the tight and swiftly proffered embrace.

-oOo-

The fierce man is a very gentle lover. It's an ironic contradiction that Grace has always felt best kept firmly to herself and she finds that her opinion on the matter hasn't changed. It's also privileged information that she fully intends to take to the grave with her, not just because she seriously doubts Boyd would appreciate its dissemination, but because to her his surprising tenderness is such an inordinately precious thing. Lying quietly in the dark, she listens to the soothing sound of the sea and to his steady heartbeat and she wonders if it was always inevitable, the smooth caress of his skin against hers. As inevitable as the sun setting in a blaze of colours over the marsh, or the moon rising in the clear early-autumn sky.

Boyd's voice is soft and low, pitched somewhere in the deeper registers, and it carries a trace of resignation as he says, "You're about to tell me this was a big mistake, aren't you?"

Closing her eyes for a moment, Grace unconsciously tightens her arm around his waist. "I really wish it was that simple."

There's a short, powerful silence followed by, "Why can't it be that simple?"

"You know why," she says, not moving. The scent of him is as familiar as the feel of him; male, musky. In the dark it's every bit as reassuring as the solid feel of him and the deep throatiness of his voice. She turns her head and kisses his bare shoulder softly before adding, "We're not simple people, Boyd, either of us."

"Does that matter?"

"I think it does where we're concerned."

He's silent for a long time. When he speaks again, there's far more regret than accusation in his voice as he says, "I know I made a mistake, Grace, but I really didn't deserve to be kicked quite so hard in the balls for it."

She can't explain. Can't tell him she deliberately hurt him with the sole objective of setting him on a path to something that could give him all the things she so evidently couldn't.

"Do we really have to do this?" she asks wearily in response, not moving her head from his shoulder. "Do we have to keep hurting each other? I thought we agreed – "

"Forget it," Boyd says, putting his hands behind his head, and the suddenly sharp tone of his voice makes it quite clear that he's very serious. "I get it, Grace. We tried, we couldn't make it work, we went our separate ways. End of."

Carefully, trying not to make it seem like a rejection, she sits up. "You make it sound so… brutal."

"It _was_ brutal. Don't try to rewrite history. You told me to get the hell out of your life."

"You weren't happy."

"I was doing my best to adjust, but you couldn't let do it my own way and in my own time, could you?" he growls, the bitterness quite obvious. "Always pushing, always trying to force me to talk about how I was feeling; when did you give me any peace, Grace? The harder I tried to be what you wanted, the harder you pushed. You didn't want me for who and what I was, you wanted me for what you thought you could turn me into."

Though the blood is pounding in her ears, Grace manages to keep her tone calm as she says, "That's not fair, and you know it. _You_ chose to retire; _you_ chose to move in with me. It wasn't _my_ fault you couldn't cope with it."

Boyd sits up, too, and suddenly they are back to back and the few inches of space between them are cold and harsh, an invisible but insurmountable barrier. He says wearily, "Come back to New Zealand with me. When this is all over."

It takes a lot to say simply and calmly, "No."

The bed creaks a little as he stands up. Head bowed, Grace listens to the soft scuffling noises as he locates his clothes, and she closes her eyes in preparation for the force with which she expects him to slam the bedroom door behind him. It doesn't happen. Boyd closes the door quietly and carefully, and strangely, that hurts her much, much more.

-oOo-

"We didn't miss him by much," Spencer's voice says, and she can hear the bitter edge of frustration in it, "but we missed him. He's on the move, Grace, and right now I don't know whether that's a good or bad thing. Oh, and the preliminary ballistics results seem to confirm that neither of the weapons we recovered from the squat fired the bullet that killed Fuller."

"He's travelling light," Grace says. She's standing at the bedroom window watching a kestrel circling over the marshes. It's a peaceful scene, one that contrasts sharply with the thoughts chasing through her head. "He's moving into a new phase, Spence."

"Meaning?" her former colleague asks.

"Meaning," she tells him soberly, "he's becoming even more focused on the hunt. He doesn't care what you find, just as long as he's a step ahead of you."

"Let me talk to Boyd," Spencer demands, not for the first time. "Grace, you've got to tell me where you are."

"You're closing the gap, Spence," she says, deliberately ignoring his entreaty. "He's running out of time."

"Grace…" two male voices say simultaneously, momentarily unnerving her.

To Spencer, she says, "I'll talk to you again later."

Ending the call, she steps out of the bedroom to find Boyd at the window looking out towards the road and the sea again. The atmosphere between them has been cool and strained all day, but not unbearably so. He still doesn't seem to be in any mood to discuss the preceding night, and neither is she. Joining him, she follows his gaze, "What?"

He points. "Kent Constabulary."

Sure enough, there's a marked police car moving slowly down the road from Shellness. Grace frowns. "Routine?"

"Let's hope so. Could be they're local boys from Sheerness nick."

"They're stopping," Grace says unnecessarily as the car does just that. The passenger door opens first, followed by the driver's door, and two uniformed young men get out and put their caps on. Both of them are looking straight at the house. Not sure why she's apprehensive, given that they undoubtedly are exactly who they appear to be, Grace glances at Boyd. "What do we do now?"

"Invite them in for a cup of tea?"

"Funny."

"Either they're looking for us, or they're not," Boyd says impassively. "And if they're not, they're not going to want to hang around wasting time chatting to a couple of doddery old pensioners, are they?"

"I really wish you could have found a slightly better way of phrasing that," Grace tells him ruefully as the two young police officers start to walk across the rough grass towards the house.

-oOo-

"Don't pay any attention to my husband," Grace says, shooting a baleful look at the man in question. "He doesn't mean to be rude, he just hasn't been quite himself since the… accident."

"Accident," the younger and fairer of the two men echoes in a bemused sort of way.

She beams at him. "Didn't I tell you about his accident? I thought I had. It was a few years ago now. Very unfortunate. I tend to think – "

The older officer interrupts with, "We're very sorry to hear that, Mrs Edwards, but if we could return to the matter of the recent spate of vandalism in and around the hamlet…?"

"She won't be able to tell you anything useful," Boyd says helpfully. He taps his temple knowingly. "She's a bit absent-minded these days. Forgetful. It's old age, you know. Memory's not what it was."

They could be overdoing it a bit. It's a possibility, but Grace thinks not as she sees the quick, despairing look that passes between the two young men. Smiling, she asks ingenuously, "Are you _quite_ sure you wouldn't like some more tea?"

It's the killer blow. The two men retreat rapidly, shaking their heads all the way back to their car. Grace is tempted to wave at them, but the weight of Boyd's arm dropping onto her shoulders distracts her. They stand together in the doorway serenely watching as the car drives away.

Grace says, "'Absent-minded'?"

"Could be worse, Grace. I could've told them you'd completely lost your marbles."

"Hmm," she says, watching the police car slowly disappear from sight. "Just remember, _Peter_, you're no spring chicken yourself."

Boyd grins at her, and for a moment everything's all right between them. His arm still casually draped round her shoulders, he asks, "So, what did Spence have to say?"

"Spence – " Grace starts, and stops abruptly as a very unwanted question presents itself to her. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her phone. The display is dark, but at a single button press it lights up instantly. She looks up at Boyd. "You called me and I forgot to switch it off."

-oOo-

Despite the shouting and the accusations, it's only when Spencer arrives that all hell actually breaks loose. Caught between the two men – both figuratively and literally – Grace repeatedly attempts to calm the situation, but her efforts have very little effect. They are both too angry, too convinced that they're right, and fundamentally they are both too stupidly male. They've butted heads before, many, many times, but never without the constraints imposed by rank and regulations, and Grace begins to fear that this time they won't stop at aggressive posturing – that this time it _will_ come to blows. If it does, she's a fair idea who will win. Boyd is tough and he is stubborn, but he's fifteen years older than Spencer who is just as tough and almost as bloody-minded. A physical confrontation will not end well for Boyd, Grace is sure of that, and perhaps that's why she does everything she can to keep herself between them as they bark and growl and bristle at each other.

"What are you doing?" she shouts at them as they try once again to square up to each other. "You're not kids in the playground, you're both supposedly mature adults, for God's sake!"

Spencer gestures impatiently. "I'm done with this. Go and get in the car, Grace. I'm taking you back to London."

"Like hell you are," Boyd snaps at him. "You take her back and Rowse will put a bullet through her head within hours – and you know it."

Spencer's retort is hard. "I'm taking her to a safe house – a _proper_ safe house with armed officers inside and out on the perimeter. You can skulk out here in the marshes for as long as you want, Boyd, but Grace is coming back with me. And so is Fuller's Glock. Hand it over."

"Fuck off, Spencer. I warn you, you _really_ don't want to get into a pissing competition with me."

"Stop it, the pair of you," Grace raps out. She glares at them both. "Who the _hell_ do you both think you are? It's _me_ that Rowse is after, and it's _me_ who decides what I do next."

"This is not a great time for the female emancipation speech, Grace."

"Oh, grow up, Boyd. Spence, go and wait outside."

"Grace – "

"I mean it," she says flatly. Spencer stares back at her for a moment, obviously trying to decide what to do for the best, but her continued glare seems to be effective because after a moment he turns sharply on his heel and stalks out into the gathering autumnal evening. Turning her attention to Boyd, she says, "Well?"

He raises his chin mutinously. "I'm not apologising, so you can forget that idea."

Grace sighs. "Forget about your bruised ego, Boyd, and just think calmly for a moment and then tell me honestly – am I safer here with you, or in London with Spence?"

Boyd doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he runs his fingers slowly through his hair and looks towards the rear window and its ever-darkening view of the marshes. When he does speak, his voice is quiet. "The moment Spencer managed to get a GPS fix on your phone, we were screwed."

"That's what I thought."

He folds his arms across his chest. "Whatever he says, we really don't know for certain he wasn't followed."

"And if he was," Grace continues for him, "we know that Rowse is happy to wait for however it takes, just as long as he thinks he can get his perfect shot in the end."

"Precisely. There are only two ways off Sheppey by car and they're right next to each other. If he's out there and he's smart – which we know he is – he's sitting out there watching the Shellness road to see what happens next."

"We're making a lot of assumptions, Boyd," Grace says dubiously.

"We are," he admits with a grimace, "but in this case I really don't think we have a lot of choice. Let's _assume_ that Rowse decided Spencer was the man to watch – that's a fairly safe assumption, yes?"

She nods. "Yes."

"And let's _assume_ that when he saw him unexpectedly take off like a scalded cat, he gambled it was worth following him."

"All right."

Boyd rubs his beard reflectively. "So let's _also_ assume that as soon as he realised Spence was heading for the back of beyond…"

Quietly, Grace says, "I'm not questioning your ability to make logical deductions, Boyd. I just wonder if the original premise is sound."

"At this stage, what have we got to lose by assuming the worst?"

She thinks about it. "Nothing."

"Good," he says, already moving towards the door and Spencer.

"You haven't answered my original question," she points out quietly. "Where am I safest?"

-oOo-

"There's another way," Spencer says obstinately. "We call it in to the Kent boys and get them to close both bridges to outward bound traffic. If he's on the island it won't take long to pick him up."

Boyd snorts. "Do you know how many empty caravans and holiday cottages there are on Sheppey at this time of year? How long do you think it'll take to search every single one of them, even with dogs?"

"It's a better idea than your half-assed plan to leg it across the marshes."

"You see, that's exactly why you've never made it to _Chief_ Inspector. No ability to think outside the box."

"You're forgetting something," Spencer says icily. "You may have somehow persuaded the Kiwis to give you a badge, but over here you're just a civilian. A _retired_ civilian. I could just arrest you and call for back-up. Theft, illegal possession of a firearm…"

Boyd's answering look is contemptuous. "You're a lot of things, Spencer, but until now I never thought you were stupid."

Grace slams her palm down on the table between them. It stings rather more than she expects, but it has the desired effect – both men look at her, startled. She jerks her head towards Boyd. "We'll do it his way."

"Grace – "

"Shut up and listen, Spence," she orders. "_If_ he's out there, then he's doing what he always does – he's watching through a scope or binoculars; he knows I'm here, and that means he's not going anywhere. He'll sit and wait for the perfect shot for as long as it takes – unless he's disturbed."

"All the more reason to close the bridges and bring in a tactical firearms team."

"All the more reason to leave him watching completely the wrong target," Boyd says. "We get Grace out safely first, and then we close the bridges. And if we're wrong and he's not out there at all, what have we lost?"

"Nothing except time," Spencer admits sullenly. He chews on a fingernail for a moment before saying, "All right, Grace. I don't like this one little bit, but it's up to you. Call it."

Oddly calm, she looks at both men in turn, and then she says, "I told you. We'll do it his way."

Boyd stands up. "Call Kat. Tell her to wait for us at the Ferry House Inn."

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," Grace says haughtily, her sharpness masking her increasing apprehension at the thought of what lies ahead. "But _someone_ told me to bring just the essentials, and strangely enough it didn't occur to me to pack my walking boots."

"You have walking boots?"

"No, of course I don't, but that's not the point."

Despite their paltry attempt at banter, she's jumpy and irritable and Boyd looks like a man just barely hanging onto the very last fraying threads of his patience. He sighs, exasperation very clear. "Just… do your best with what you've got, okay? It's not exactly impassable terrain out there, but I don't think the skirt," he gestures vaguely at her, "and the green floaty thing are quite going to cut it."

"Go away, Boyd."

He doesn't move, simply stays where he is, leaning on the inside of the bedroom door watching her. On principle, she folds her arms and stares back at him. Boyd tilts his head to one side and inquires, "Shy?"

"No," she says brusquely.

Looking suspiciously like he's trying not to grin, he says, "I've seen it all before, Grace."

"And if you want _any_ chance of ever seeing it again, you'll go and annoy Spence for ten minutes while I sort myself out."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"Close the door quietly on your way out."

"There's a Māori saying," Boyd says, straightening up and reaching for the door handle. "_Aroha mai, aroha atu_. Look it up sometime."

-oOo-

It's not in her nature to eavesdrop, but the building is small and hardly substantially built, added to which, neither of the men in the other room are renowned for their ability to converse quietly. At first Grace only catches the odd word or two, but as the decibel level rises and she automatically becomes more attuned to their muffled voices, it's impossible not to hear most of the exchange – and much of it seems to be centred on her. It shouldn't surprise her, and it doesn't. Both of them have always been very protective towards her – if for very different reasons – and neither of them is afraid to say exactly what they think.

She does her best to filter out the angry words and concentrate on readying herself for the unwelcome walk across the dark saltmarsh, but she lifts her head as she clearly hears Spencer say, "When this is over, you go back to Auckland and you stay there, Boyd. Grace doesn't need you in her life."

She blinks indignantly, half-tempted to wrench open the bedroom door and tell him in no uncertain terms that none of it is any concern of his, but the sound of Boyd's answering voice stays her. He sounds more tired than angry as he retorts, "What Grace does or doesn't need is none of your damned business."

"She thought you loved her. Do you realise that? She actually thought you loved her."

There's a cautionary intensity in Boyd's voice as it replies, "Back off, Spencer. I'm warning you."

"Or you'll do what? You're nothing, Boyd. A spent force; a has-been. A tired, bitter, lonely old man who went halfway round the world to avoid facing up to his demons. You're less than nothing, you're a bully and a coward and Grace – "

Quick as Grace is to snatch hold of the door handle, she's just a fraction too late. She doesn't see the blow, but she hears it, and what she _does_ see is Spencer clumsily stumbling back against the dining table, dark blood already welling from his lower lip. Apparently Boyd isn't quite the spent force he imagined, and by the startled look on the younger man's face that's genuinely something of a surprise.

Boyd is advancing, and there's no doubt that he absolutely intends to finish what he started. His face is hard and set, but it's his eyes that frighten Grace. They blaze with the brutal, unthinking rage she's seen in him too often before. This is not the gentle lover, the infuriating but engaging companion, or even the tough, experienced police officer, this is the wild, angry man who sees no boundaries, heeds no warnings and is quite capable of appalling acts of extraordinary violence. This is the side of Boyd's character that has always troubled and repelled Grace, the dark, destructive part of him that lashes out without thought or reason and doesn't care about the consequences – doesn't even recognise the concept of consequences.

Spencer is still reeling from the first blow when Boyd hits him again, but before a third can be delivered, Grace has hold of Boyd's arm and is tugging fiercely. It should be a very unequal struggle; he's angry, he's close on six foot tall and he outweighs her by a good eighty pounds, but somehow she manages to haul him far enough off-balance to force him to turn towards her, and as he does, Grace summons everything she has and she slaps him. It's not by any means a gentle caress, and it lands with a crack that snaps Boyd's head round sharply. Far too late, she realises what a potentially dangerous strategy it is to employ with a man who can be so volatile and so violent, but Grace is lucky – the unexpected tactic works. In the tense silence that follows, Boyd turns his head back slowly and he simply stares at her, his expression a conflicting combination of disbelief, shock and anger. There's even a real hint of wry amusement and grudging respect detectable in the mix.

"Enough," she orders forcefully. "_Both_ of you. No more. This stops here and now."

"Grace…" Spencer says, dabbing ineffectually at his split lip.

"_Enough_," she repeats. "Don't you think I've got more than enough to worry about without you two turning on each other? Are you listening to me, Spencer?"

"I'm listening," he says sullenly. "But, Grace, come on, let's face it – he's no good for you. Never has been, never will be."

Grace has considerably more patience than Boyd, but even she has her limits. Still gripping Boyd's arm hard, she rounds on Spencer, and it's her sudden fury that allows the truth to break free with, "It's nothing to do with you – none of it. I love the wretched man. Can't you get that through your thick skull?"

Spencer shakes his head slightly and looks at the floor, his silence extremely eloquent. The room is suddenly very quiet, almost deafeningly so. Very still, too, as the three of them form a strained tableau. Grace doesn't look at Boyd; doesn't need to. She can feel a subtle shift in the tension beneath her fingers as she maintains her hold on him, feel the change in its character as the aggression becomes something else altogether.

Slowly releasing her grip, she says, "I'm almost ready. Now might be a good time to start thinking about how the hell we get out of here without being seen."

-oOo-

Simplicity. It's a great concept in theory, but not necessarily such a great idea in practise, Grace decides as she finds herself thanking any and all of the powers that be that both her companions are on the sturdy side of well-built. She's far too old to be climbing out of ridiculously small windows in the dark. Still, with the combined muscle of Spencer on the inside and Boyd on the outside and some careful and diplomatic choreography, she eventually finds herself safely standing on soft, springy ground with the cool evening breeze making her shiver slightly as she gets used to the lower temperature. It crosses her mind to wonder how ridiculous this will all seem if it later transpires that Rowse is still in London, but that's really not a gamble she's currently willing to take.

"Spence?" she says, and finds herself immediately and irritably hushed by the shadowy figure at her side. Less loudly, she says, "Spence, are you sure you're going to be okay?"

He peers out of the open window at her and nods. "I'll be fine. Keep the fire going and keep turning the lights on and off. I guess even _I_ can manage that."

Ignoring the pointed sarcasm, she reaches up to squeeze his hand quickly. "Be careful, okay? We'll call you when we're with Kat."

"Works for me," he says. As Boyd turns away, he adds, "I don't suppose you want me to point out that he might have known those marshes like the back of his hand fifty years ago but – "

"No," she says, but with a smile. "Probably not the best time. Take care, Spence."

Predictably impatient, Boyd growls, "Let's get going."

With a finally despairing glance at Spencer, Grace offers up a silent prayer and says, "Lead on, Macduff."

"It's '_Lay_ on, Macduff'," Boyd tells her pedantically as he takes her hand. His grip is reassuringly firm, and she obediently falls into step with him, mildly surprised at how well she can see the terrain ahead now that her eyes have fully adjusted to the dark. Maybe this isn't going to be quite as bad as she feared…

It's not. At first. At first, the ground is relatively firm and flat, easy enough to traverse, even at night. After just a few hundred yards they veer south onto a narrow but fairly smooth path, and Grace begins to feel considerably more confident. A quick glance behind her confirms that they're steadily drawing away from the house and that the ground has dropped away a little. In broad daylight they might possibly be seen from the road, but she doubts anyone could pick them out in the dark, even with binoculars… or a rifle scope. In front of them, the dark marshland gives way to the sea wall and the Swale – not close yet, but easily distinguishable. She can even see a few distant lights on the opposite shore.

"What's on the other side of the water?" she asks, nodding towards the softly gleaming channel of water.

"Farms and farmland, mostly," Boyd says. "Faversham, further inland. Are you ready? This is where it starts to get a bit tricky."

It's a considerable understatement, Grace quickly discovers. Off the path, the ground is a difficult mixture of rough grazing and wet boggy areas marked by tall reeds, all criss-crossed with water-filled ditches that reflect the moonlight. It's a place to briefly admire from the safe distance of a warm car, she decides, not one to be encountered at such close quarters in the dark. Grace is an urban creature, born and bred, and she finds the silent stretch of saltmarsh not only difficult to traverse, but eerie and unwelcoming. At night, it seems to be a very empty, brooding sort of place. All it needs are some creeping tendrils of mist and an abandoned gothic mansion on the skyline to complete her mental image of a perfect horror story setting. It's not the best time for a startled bird to noisily break cover in front of them, wings flapping wildly as it struggles to get airborne.

"Okay?" Boyd asks as she jumps and instinctively tightens her grip on his hand. He sounds more amused than concerned, but the glare she gives him in response is lost in the dark.

"Fine," she says, gritting her teeth. "How much further to the pub?"

"Another couple of miles, maybe."

Grace stops dead, her sudden inertia also bringing Boyd to a reluctant halt. "Another couple of _miles_? You're not serious?"

"It's okay, it gets easier. We're going to cut across to the sea wall and walk along that."

"Boyd, look at me. Do I _look_ as if I'm built for commando training?"

"Not the first thing that comes into my mind when I look at you, admittedly," he says, but before she can retort, he tugs her hand gently but insistently. "Come on, Grace, don't tell me you haven't got the balls for it?"

"You went to an all-boys school, didn't you?"

Obviously bewildered, he nods. "Yeah. So?"

Reluctantly, Grace starts walking again. "You really need to improve your grasp of basic human anatomy."

She may not be able to clearly see the inevitable grin, but she can certainly hear it as he asks, "You think…?"

-oOo-

Boyd is right. Once they finally reach and ascend the clay rampart that forms the sea wall, the walk becomes much easier. She's tired, her feet are wet and she's beginning to harbour increasingly murderous thoughts towards her companion, but as she pauses to catch her breath and simultaneously takes the opportunity to survey the view, Grace has to admit to a certain sense of accomplishment. Their temporary hideout has become little more than a distant smudge on the horizon, only really distinguishable by all the interior lights deliberately showing. Looking back towards the water, she's struck again by just how remote the area feels given its proximity to London.

At her side, Boyd abruptly says, "I wouldn't have taken the damn job, you know. Not if I'd thought there was the remotest chance for us."

Grace glances at him. He's also staring out across the water, his strong, distinctive profile very clear in the moonlight. She looks away, says quietly, "I know."

"You lied to me."

There's no point in trying to deny it. Nor does she even want to. Not anymore. "Yes."

"Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess," he mutters. "Why, Grace? _Why_?"

It's time to tell the truth. "Because I loved you. Because you weren't happy. Because you needed… something else."

"I needed _you_."

Still not looking at him, Grace shakes her head. "No you didn't. You've never needed me, Boyd."

"You're wrong," he says immediately, his intensity startling her. "I've _always_ needed you. Professionally and personally. You think I could've kept going for as long as I did if you hadn't been there to help pick up the pieces when things went wrong?"

Gently, she asks, "Now who's rewriting history, Boyd? Or have you really forgotten all the times you flatly refused to let _anyone_ help you?"

He doesn't answer. Grace waits, but he simply continues to stare at the Swale. She's on the verge of shrugging and starting to walk again without another word when he asks, "How long have we known each other, Grace?"

She doesn't need to think about it. "Ten, eleven years or more."

"And how long did it take you to work out that I wasn't just the demanding, hard-headed bastard everyone warned you about? Days? Hours?"

"Something like that," she admits wryly. "So? Underneath it all, you're a pussycat? I know _that_. Your point is…?"

Boyd turns and catches hold of her hand again. "My point _is_, how can you know me so well and yet still refuse to believe that I was always well-aware of how much I needed you? C'mon, Grace; you're a psychologist, for God's sake. The big tough policeman really isn't so tough under the surface, is he? It's just… all for appearances, isn't it? Head of a controversial unit like the CCU, you've got to be seen to always be in complete command, got to be seen to be the one who's strong enough and bloody-minded enough to hold everything and everyone together while continuing to take all the shit."

"That's… very profound," she says, and it isn't a gibe.

He continues persistently, "You _know_ what it was like, you know how bloody… impossible… it was sometimes. People strafing me from every side, even my _own_ people. I held the unit and its staff together for years – but who was it who was quietly holding _me_ together, Grace?"

His uncharacteristic self-awareness startles her, but not as much as his apparent willingness to share it. Carefully – very carefully – she says, "You know, this probably isn't the best time to be discussing this."

"Probably not," Boyd agrees soberly. "But I just can't get my head round the fact that you lied to me, Grace. You _deliberately_ lied to me, and I fell for it. Hook, line and bloody sinker. You told me you didn't love me and I left England honestly believing there was nothing at all left for me here, and now I find out that you lied… Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

"I think I'm starting to," Grace says quietly. "Peter, you were so unhappy. It broke my heart, watching a little bit more of you wither away and die with every day that passed."

"Oh, don't be so bloody melodramatic," he snaps at her. "I was _sulking_, Grace. That's all. They booted me out of the CCU and they tried to put me out to pasture at Hendon, and it _hurt_. After everything I'd sacrificed, it really fucking hurt. _That's_ why I jacked it all in. It was nothing to do with you, and if you'd just let me work it all through in my own time…"

"You walked out," she accuses quietly. "You walked out without a word and you didn't come back for days. What was I supposed to think?"

His grip on her hand tightens. "I made a stupid mistake, Grace. I was an idiot, but I really didn't expect to come back to find my bags packed."

"We're going round in circles," Grace says wearily, half-heartedly trying to pull away from him. "Boyd, it's dark, we're right in the middle of bloody nowhere, and somewhere out there there's a man who wants to kill me just for the fun of it. This really is _not_ the time."

He opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it again. She gazes at him for a moment, well-aware of how dramatic and how distinguished he looks in the moonlight. Whatever happens – whether she dies tonight or in another twenty years' time – she has no doubt that Peter Boyd is destined to be the very last great love of her life. It doesn't matter if he goes back to New Zealand and she never sees him again, doesn't matter if Rowse finally succeeds in getting her firmly in his sights. Things are just… the way they are.

With her free hand she reaches up to stroke a heavy, wayward lock of hair back from his forehead. The dense softness of it never fails to surprise her. Quietly, she asks, "Why are you here? You dropped everything and flew halfway round the world on the strength of one phone-call. Why?"

"You know why."

"Tell me," Grace insists.

"Because I love you," he says with no hint of awkwardness. "It's really that simple."

"I thought it might be."

Boyd looks down at her. "So?"

She's not quite ready to capitulate. Raising her eyebrows she asks, "So… what?"

He sighs, sharply and impatiently. "For God's sake, Grace. Traditionally, this is the moment when you throw yourself into my arms and we both admit that we simply can't live without each other."

It's all so… inevitable. There's really no other word for it. Grace shrugs. "Oh, that. I thought we were rather taking that as read."

He glares at her. "You drive me mad; you know that, don't you? And not in a good way."

"Not _just_ in a good way," she amends.

The dark glare softens a little. "Yeah, well… We'll take that as read, as well, shall we? Okay, let's save the kissing and making up for later and just get the hell out of here. Before we die of old age, or Rowse appears on the horizon and shoots us both."

"All right," Grace agrees serenely. He gives her a quizzical look, but says nothing. They start to walk along the sea wall again, heading steadily south-west. Boyd's pace is quicker than it was, his impatience obvious, but on the path she's just about able to keep up with him without too much undignified heavy-breathing. Infuriatingly, it seems he's still a lot fitter than she is. She's tempted to grumble about the perils of taking up with younger men, but immediately decides his ego is quite robust enough without any unnecessary massaging.

Boyd stops abruptly, and her heartbeat automatically quickens. Fearing he's spotted something in the shadows ahead, she closes the gap between them, taking what comfort she can from the sheer physical size of him. He shakes his head. "Changed my mind."

Frightened and irritable, she frowns. "What?"

"The making up can wait, but getting the kissing out of the way is probably a good idea."

"Oh, for God's… We did the kissing last night, Boyd."

"Indulge me."

"When did I ever do anything else?" Grace asks petulantly, but then it's too late because his hands are on her shoulders, his lips are on hers and she's much too engrossed in the deepening kiss to bother about thinking of further objections. He's neither rough nor forceful, doesn't need to be; there's a very natural, very powerful chemistry between them, and Grace simply follows his example and lets it work its own very successful magic. They don't struggle, they don't grapple and snatch at each other, they simply kiss with the easy, passionate finesse of deeply-attuned lovers.

It's Boyd who eventually pulls back, Boyd who says softly, "_Aroha mai, aroha atu_."

Puzzled and charmed, she asks, "That's what you said earlier. What does it mean?"

"Everything," he says cryptically. "It means everything, Grace."

And then the saltmarsh is alive with the squawking of startled seabirds as the first gunshot echoes through the night.

* * *

_Continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

She's followed the sea wall to its end and the beach as far as the wooden jetty, and now she's on the narrow lane that heads back inland. Boyd's succinct directions seem to have been accurate because she can finally see the Ferry House Inn, and there, at the very edge of its car park, is the waiting grey car and its very familiar driver.

"Drive," Grace cries breathlessly before she's even fully settled in the passenger seat. "Drive, Kat! Follow the signs to Leysdown and Shellness."

Starting the engine, Kat doesn't argue; she waits long enough for Grace to close the car door and then she puts her foot down hard and the car's tyres squeal briefly as they fight for traction. Slewing the car round and out onto the lane, Kat demands, "What the hell's going on? I heard the shots. Where's Boyd?"

"Hopefully almost back at the house by now," Grace tells her. "Just drive, Kat. Spence isn't answering his phone."

"Christ, do you think he's…?"

"Just drive!"

-oOo-

Boyd is not at the house and neither is Spencer. They are both standing unharmed on the Shellness road, perfectly illuminated by the headlights of an ambulance and several police vehicles, and as Kat brings her car to a rapid stop, the only thing going through Grace's mind – bizarrely – is how incongruous the continuously strobing blue lights on the vehicles seem in such a remote spot. Kat swears, mutters, "What the…?"

Grace shakes her head, confused, and then Spencer is jogging quickly towards them, waving off an uniformed officer who's also heading towards them on an obvious interception course. His shouted words are quite clear: "Stay in the car, Grace! Stay in the car!"

She obeys, but lowers the window to demand, "What's happened? Rowse…?"

Spencer comes to a rapid halt by the passenger door and nods. "Shot two local officers on a routine call-out. They were heading down to the hamlet, and I guess he saw them and got spooked."

An ice-cold lump seems to form in the pit of her stomach. "Dead…?"

"Yeah," Spencer confirms solemnly. "Youngsters. Driver was shot in the chest, passenger in the head."

Grace thinks of the two young men she made tea for just hours earlier, and somehow she just knows…

"I sprinted up here as fast as I could," Spencer tells her, "but there was nothing I could do. Boyd got here just before the ambulance… Shame they didn't get here first, really – he looked like he could do with some oxygen."

Grace is not amused. "We thought _you'd _been shot. You didn't answer your phone."

Spencer looks bewildered for a second. "Shit. I must have left it back at the house. I didn't think, Grace, I just ran all the way up here – sorry. Guy from the house further up had already dialled nine-nine-nine when I got here. That's him talking to the Sergeant – he saw an old Vauxhall take off at high speed towards Leysdown just after the shots were fired."

"Rowse," Kat says from the driver's seat.

"They've closed the bridges, but the speed he was reportedly going…"

Grace shuts her eyes and lets her head drop back against the headrest. Quite suddenly she feels old, tired and very, very scared. The nightmare isn't abating, it's just getting bloodier. An exhausted part of her wants to give in and let the tears fall, but a tougher, much more dominant part of her takes control and she opens her eyes again. She reaches into her pocket. "Here, take my phone, Spence. Call Hewitt."

"He's already on his way, Grace," Spencer tells her quietly. "Three officers dead in as many days… It's out of all our hands now."

She looks towards the tall, silver-haired figure who's talking animatedly to two of the uniformed officers. Equally quietly, she asks, "Will he be able to come with me?"

Spencer's expression is grim. "I doubt it. Boyd may be good at talking himself out of trouble, but I think Hewitt's going to attempt to charge him with just about everything from obstruction to lifting Fuller's gun from the scene…"

-oOo-

Boyd confirms what Grace already knows – the dead men are the two officers who visited them earlier. Two young men investigating a series of petty crimes; two young men who ended up in the wrong place and the wrong time and inadvertently fell victim to an incredibly dangerous and focused predator. Instinct and experience make her look at Boyd and say, "It's escalating, isn't it? His behaviour? He only has one objective, and nothing else matters to him. He doesn't care if he's taken alive or not, just as long as he makes his final kill."

They are standing not far from the edge of the road, facing the sea. The breeze has stiffened, become much colder, but whether that's all that's making her shiver, Grace isn't sure. She doesn't complain when Boyd puts an arm around her shoulders and draws her against him, and it isn't just his physical warmth that she welcomes. He says, "Man like Rowse isn't made for imprisonment."

"You think this is his last hurrah?"

"Don't you?"

Grace shrugs slightly. Resting her head against his shoulder, she admits, "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Boyd. I'm so tired, so drained emotionally and physically…"

"It's going to be okay, Grace. By now everyone from the Commissioner downwards is going to be kicking Hewitt's arse. Wherever they take you, you can bet the security's going to be absolutely watertight."

"Find me," she says urgently. "As soon as they bail you, come and find me."

"About that," he replies, and tightens his hold on her. "I'm not hanging around long enough to be arrested and banged up in some obscure nick somewhere, not while Rowse is still on the loose."

Grace frowns up at him. "What are you going to do? You can't get off the island, Boyd, the bridges are closed."

"Who says I'm going off by road?"

"What _are_ you going to do, then? Swim across the bloody Swale?"

His reply is deadpan. "Don't be ridiculous, Grace. Far too cold."

She knows it's pointless to argue with him, knows his mind is already made up. Pulling away from him, she says fatalistically, "I suppose you want me to cause a distraction, then, do you?"

Boyd grins at her. "You read my mind."

-oOo-

"And you just let him slip away from under your damn nose, did you, Jordan?" Hewitt barks angrily. "Christ, man, just how incompetent are you? First Rowse and now Boyd. You can expect a disciplinary for this."

Thus far, Grace has said very little, preferring to stay at the edge of the big, brightly-lit squad room that has been temporarily commandeered, but Hewitt's hectoring tone and his implied thread make her hackles rise. Ignoring the armed protection officer at her side, she steps forward. "For heaven's sake, Chief Superintendent, look at him. Does he look like he let Boyd 'just slip away'?"

Hewitt glowers at her, but then automatically looks at Spencer. He sees what everyone else sees. There's heavy bruising to the side of Spencer's face and his split lip is badly swollen. Less aggressively, Hewitt demands, "He assaulted you, Jordan? Spit it out, man!"

"Look at him," Grace says again, saving Spencer from having to give a straight answer. "And as for Rowse, DI Jordan got to the scene of the shooting as quickly as he could."

Through the glass panel in the closed door, she can see the palpable interest their presence is generating amongst the local officers. The police station at Sheerness is not large, and she doubts it ever sees as much excitement as it has tonight. When they first arrived the atmosphere in the building was electric, a mixture of anger and shock, and very little of that has dissipated, but now intense curiosity has been added into the mix.

Hewitt clears his throat noisily. "Well, Boyd can be dealt with later. We'll pick him up at the airport, if not before. In the meantime, our concerns are Rowse, and getting you to safety, Doctor."

She's so tired now. So impossibly tired, and dizzy, too. Her legs hurt, her back hurts, and all she wants to do is lie down somewhere quiet and go to sleep. She doesn't know or care how late it is now, but she guesses it's well after midnight.

"Grace?" Spencer's voice says. It seems to be coming from a long, long way away. He sounds very concerned. "Grace…?"

-oOo-

When she opens her eyes, the first thing Grace registers is bright autumn sunshine streaming through a large, rectangular window. She can see the sky. Very blue, almost completely cloudless. Blinking groggily, she raises her head from thick, soft pillows and realises she's in some kind of hospital room. At least, that's what it appears to be. There's all the usual medical equipment – none of it in use – a plethora of official-looking notices on the walls and a strong smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. There's also a rather square-shouldered young woman in black body armour sitting in the chair in the corner. The heavy pistol on her belt seems somehow less incongruous than the brightly-coloured women's magazine she's slowly flicking through.

Frightened and disorientated, Grace tries, "Spence…?"

The woman looks up instantly. She smiles a little uncertainly, puts the magazine aside and stands up. "Doctor Foley? I'm Sergeant Barrett. Amanda Barrett. How are you feeling?"

"All right, I think," Grace says cautiously, sitting up properly. "Where am I? Where's DI Jordan?"

"Relax," the woman says. "You're in The Pines. A private clinic just outside Sittingbourne. DI Jordan's been summoned back to London, I'm afraid."

"Hewitt…?"

"The DCS has also gone back to London. Bear with me, I'm just going to call the doctor, tell him you're awake."

It very quickly transpires that there's nothing much wrong with her, that she's merely completely exhausted and has been heavily sedated overnight following her unexpected collapse in Sheerness. The doctor is professional, calm and friendly, but Grace can't help feeling increasingly uneasy. She has no real idea where she is, nor how safe she might be – and there's no sign of any of her former colleagues. She feels incredibly alone; abandoned, even. She wonders where Boyd is, whether he's been picked up and arrested; she wonders where Spencer is. Most fundamentally of all, she wonders where Michael Rowse currently is.

"If you'd like to take a shower," Amanda Barrett says, "it's just through that door. There are some clean clothes and things here. I'm afraid yours are rather… muddy."

Thinking back to the previous night, Grace says dryly, "I went for a bit of an unexpected walk."

"I see," the younger woman says in the kind of tone that suggests she has absolutely no clue what's actually going on and is simply following orders handed down from on high. "Shall I organise breakfast for you, Doctor? Tea? Coffee?"

It's all just a little bit too surreal.

-oOo-

Seconds after she switches her phone on with the intention of calling Spencer, an impatient chime announces the arrival of a text message. Grace doesn't recognise the number, but the content is quite clear, six digits followed by a simple instruction: _"176401. Call me. You have until 6pm before I shoot him."_

Her stomach knots tightly, and for a moment she feels faint again. One-seven-six-four-zero-one. Boyd's former Metropolitan Police warrant number.

"Doctor Foley?" Barrett asks, eyebrows raised. "Are you all right?"

Still staring at the small screen, Grace forces herself to nod. "Fine."

Michael Rowse has Boyd. She's still using the cheap phone provided by Spencer just a couple of days earlier and there's no other plausible way Rowse could have obtained her temporary number. He has Boyd, and she absolutely knows he will carry out his threat. It would mean no more to him than shooting a rabbit or a pigeon. People are nothing more than interesting, exciting prey to him. Shooting Boyd will be as easy as shooting Fuller was, or the two young officers on Sheppey. Or any of his previous victims.

Abruptly getting to her feet, she announces, "I need to use the bathroom."

Barrett merely nods and returns to flicking listlessly through yet another magazine. Grace moves past her, quickly locks herself in the small bathroom with its immaculately clean basin, toilet and shower, and dials Spencer's number. Waiting impatiently, she drums her fingers restlessly on the top of the cistern. A moment later Spencer's voice says, "Grace. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she tells him briskly. "Can you talk?"

"Wait a moment," Spencer replies instantly. There's a pause, some background noise, then, "Okay."

Knowing he'll catch on, and still worried about being overheard, she asks, "Do you know where _El Toro_ is?"

It's an old, old epithet from CCU days. Originally Stella Goodman's, in fact. Always delivered in heavily French-accented Spanish, usually with a pained, pointed look towards the heavens. _El Toro_ – The Bull. The proverbial bull in the china shop, to be exact. Spencer's response is immediate. "No clue, Grace, sorry. Gone to ground for the duration, I assume. Why?"

"I've had a text message. We've got trouble, Spence. Can you get here?"

There's a pause. "Could be difficult, Grace. My Super's spitting blood over my involvement in all this as it is…"

"_El Toro's_ been scheduled for the next bullet."

There's a long moment of silence followed by, "Guess I'm in so much trouble already another bollocking won't matter one way or the other. Give me an hour, Grace. And for God's sake, sit tight and don't do anything rash."

Returning to the main room, she goes to stand by the window. There's a stretch of lawn outside, immaculately tended, and beyond it a high wall and the suggestion of woods and fields. There's a marked police car on the drive, and another closer to the building. Glancing at Barrett, Grace asks, "How many officers have been assigned to protect me?"

The woman looks up. "At the moment there are two of us from SO1, and four local firearms officers. Trust me, you're quite safe, Doctor Foley."

"Do I have to stay in this room?"

"It might be for the best, at the moment. We're just waiting for the order to transfer you to a safe house."

"Soon?"

"Tonight, probably," Barrett tells her. "I know it's difficult, but you should try to rest and relax. I can get the doctor to give you something, if you'd like…?"

"No," Grace says firmly. She looks at her watch. It's almost midday.

-oOo-

Just sometimes, in the evenings, Boyd would sprawl out lazily on the sofa with his head in her lap as she read a book or idly watched the television. Usually on such occasions, he'd eventually fall asleep, more from boredom than contentment, and Grace would find herself looking down at him in bewildered wonderment, hardly daring to believe he was real and not just some wishful fantasy. In hindsight, perhaps such moments should have acted as a warning to her about the dangers of complacency. It's only now that she can look back and see just how bored he very quickly was, not with her, but with the humdrum monotony of everyday life that offered him absolutely nothing in the way of a challenge.

Things will be different, Grace tells herself. This time – if they both survive the nightmare – things will be very different. She won't allow herself to fall into the trap of mindless domesticity, won't allow herself to imagine he could ever be as content just to _be_ as she is. She wonders about New Zealand, speculates on whether or not there could be some kind of professional opening for her there. Boyd needs to work, she knows that now, and perhaps she does, too. Not just when she feels like it, but regularly.

If Rowse shoots him…

Grace can't picture a world without Peter Boyd. Even when there were so many miles separating them, she'd always known he was out there somewhere, and there had been continued contact via occasional emails and sporadic phone calls. A little guarded, sometimes, true, but the open promise of communication was always there whenever she needed it.

He shouldn't be the right man for her. He's too highly-strung, too intemperate. He makes her laugh. There are times when she comes close to fearing him, times when she could easily start to despise him. He makes her shiver, too, in the quiet dark, the one place where he's consistently generous and gentle. He's a big man with a big heart… and she loves him. God help her, she loves him. She loves him enough to die for him.

It's a terrifying, shocking, wonderful realisation.

-oOo-

Spencer's warrant card is enough to grant him access to her room, but is not, it seems, enough to persuade Amanda Barrett to wait outside in the corridor. Watching the rapidly-heating exchange, Grace speculates on the effect so many years spent as Boyd's lieutenant has had on Spencer Jordan. Spencer will never see it, she's certain, much less admit it, but he has all of his former commander's belligerent obstinacy. And none, she thinks wryly, as she sees Barrett beginning to bridle, of his occasional, startling charm. It doesn't seem to occur to Spencer to change tactics the way Grace knows Boyd would. Sighing to herself, she cuts into the argument with, "Just five minutes, Amanda, please. What's the harm?"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Foley, but I have my orders."

"Of course you do," Grace agrees. "But surely if you're right outside the door…? It's not as if anyone can get in or out without you seeing them, is it? DI Jordan and I have something rather… personal… to discuss."

Predictably, she gets her own way eventually. Not easily, but Grace gets her own way. She and Spencer stand with their backs to the door conversing in low voices, and in the end she says, "I don't have a choice, Spence. If I don't call him, he'll kill Boyd without a second thought."

Spencer shakes his head dubiously. "I don't know, Grace. Boyd might just be the best bargaining chip he's got."

"Rowse doesn't think like that," she tells him impatiently. "This is a one-time deal. I'm not prepared to risk calling his bluff."

"You know what he's gonna say, don't you? Your life for Boyd's."

She knows he's right, but she shrugs as casually as she can. "We don't know that."

"Yes we do, Grace. That's exactly what he's going to say."

Grace takes a deep breath. Martialling her thoughts, she says, "If that's the way it's got to be…"

"No," Spencer says instantly. "No. Absolutely not. You're not doing a deal with Rowse. I won't let you."

"It's not your decision to make, Spence."

He shakes his head again, defiantly this time. "No. And before you tell me to butt out, what the hell do you think Boyd would say? He'd be furious with you for even thinking about it – and with me for not stopping you."

"I can't let this happen. I can't let Rowse shoot him."

Spencer snatches hold of her arm, and his grip is far from gentle. "Boyd loves you. It may pain me to admit it, but he does. He'd die for you without a second thought."

Recalling her earlier thoughts, Grace nods. "I know. But that cuts both ways, Spence, can't you see that?"

"You're crazy, the pair of you. It's not healthy, this… obsession… you've got with each other."

"You're jealous," she says slowly, taking in his expression, the intensity in his eyes. "My God, you're jealous. That's what all this aggression towards Boyd's been about, isn't it?"

Letting go of her arm, he takes a quick step away from her. "Don't be so bloody ridiculous."

And in a flash of clairvoyance, Grace understands everything. All the antagonism, all the bluster, all the accusations. Gently, she says, "Oh, Spencer…"

Suddenly he looks hunted, haunted, and old beyond his years. "Leave it Grace, okay? Just leave it."

She can see the truth in his eyes. She says quietly, "He never understood why you had such a big chip on your shoulder, never understood why you'd square up to him at every possible opportunity. All that conflict, all those arguments…"

Spencer is staring at the floor. When he speaks, his voice sounds unnaturally hollow, empty. "Nothing I did was ever good enough."

"Spence," she says, reaching out to grasp his shoulder gently. "Oh, Spence. Don't you realise how proud of you he is? How proud of you he's _always_ been?"

Spencer doesn't look up. "He was my DCI at Limehouse for three years, did you know that? When they offered him the chance to set up the CCU I told him he was a fool to even consider it."

"And…?" Grace prompts quietly.

"And… after he finished kicking my arse right round the squad room, he offered me the sergeant's job. I owe him so much, Grace. You have no idea."

Grace thinks she does, but she settles for saying, "I know you've spent years trying to prove something to Boyd – and to yourself."

"I'm not a high-flier," Spencer tells her unhappily, raising his gaze. "Not like Stella was. Or Mel. I work hard and I'm a damn good copper, but… Oh, it doesn't matter."

"But," Grace guesses, "You've never felt you were living up to his expectations?"

Spencer shakes his head. "I tried, Grace. In the beginning I really tried. But there was always someone quicker, cleverer… I was always standing in someone else's shadow. In the end I think he just stopped caring whether or not I was really making anything of myself, just as long as I showed up for work and did my job."

She can see the pain in him, the frustration. There's so much she wants to say to him, but time is definitely running out. She opts for, "That's simply not true, Spence. He always saw you as his natural successor. Why do you think he was so angry when you left the CCU?"

"Went crawling back though, didn't I? With my tail firmly between my legs."

Grace watches him for a few seconds more, still acutely aware of the passage of time. When it becomes clear he's not going to say anything else, she says, "Challenging him might get his attention, Spence, but it's not the way to win his respect."

"Worked for _you_, though, didn't it?"

"No," Grace says honestly, ignoring the clear bitterness in his tone. "There's a huge difference between telling him what he doesn't want to hear and openly challenging his authority. You need to learn that. No-one took Boyd away from you, Spence, you created a schism between you all by yourself. He has no idea why you became so hostile towards him."

Spencer walks across to the window and stares out. Quietly, he asks, "What happened, Grace? What happened to us all?"

"We got older," she tells him simply. "We got older and more cynical, and we made some stupid mistakes."

"I guess so," he says. He turns to face her and visibly takes a deep breath. "All right, Grace. Go ahead. Call Rowse. God knows how, but we'll get this done."

"One for all, and all for one," Grace suggests, and realises she's only half-joking.

"Yeah, that's us," Spencer says gloomily. "The three bloody musketeers…"

-oOo-

Rowse's voice hasn't changed much since Grace last heard it. A fraction older and deeper, maybe, but still quiet and calm with the same flat, Estuary accent that's so common in and around London. There's no drama in the way he says, "There's a disused wartime airfield near Oxley Green, south of Tiptree; you'll find it. Be there at six. Alone."

"Let me speak to Boyd," Grace says again.

"Aside from a slight bang on the head, the Detective Superintendent's absolutely fine, Grace. Don't worry about that. Or don't you trust me?"

She knows it's a loaded question. Giving the wrong answer could easily be enough to cost Boyd his life. Carefully, she asks, "Should I trust you, Michael?"

"Of course," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Be fair, Grace; you know I'm a man of my word."

It's true. Within his own twisted moral framework, Michael Rowse is exactly that – a man of his word. The psychologist in her knows he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – lie in such circumstances; for him, sharing the truth with his intended victims is all part of the extended excitement of the hunt. It's almost part of a perverse sort of… intimacy… that he needs to create with his prey before he kills it. She looks at Spencer, says to Rowse, "Six o'clock, alone. Or…?"

There's a dry chuckle followed by, "Oh, you know the answer to that, Grace. And make no mistake, if I get the slightest hint that you're not alone, or that you're trying to mess me around, I'll put a bullet through his head before I do anything else."

She believes him. Completely.

-oOo-

The fire alarm is still blaring loudly, causing panic and confusion amongst staff and patients alike. There's no doubt that well-practised emergency protocols are being followed, but in the adrenaline and the chaos it's possible – just – for Grace to quickly duck into an open doorway for the scant few seconds necessary to break the invisible tether between her and her ever-vigilant bodyguard. She can see Barrett looking round sharply, hand hovering over the gun on her hip, her expression clouded as she tries to locate her charge, and then the tide of people in the corridor forms a barrier between them. Grace doesn't wait, doesn't hesitate. A better chance may never come. It's now or never, and for once it pays to be shorter and slighter than most of the people around her as she lets herself be drawn towards the stairs and the exit by the hasty, unsettled throng.

There are uniformed police officers amongst the frightened crowd trying to leave the building, but it seems they aren't yet looking for her, and Grace does everything she can to stay in the middle of the human stream heading downwards, her head ducked. If they see her and stop her, Boyd will die. In her mind, the equation is that simple.

She's almost there now. She can smell fresh air, can feel the slight drop in temperature. No sign of Spencer yet, but that's okay. They agreed that after he set the alarm off, he would head straight for his car and bring it as close to the main entrance as possible without arousing too much suspicion. The crowd's starting to move faster now, as if the proximity of the big doors and the promise safety beyond is acting like a powerful magnet, and Grace gratefully continues to allow herself to be swept along. She can hear shouting over the wailing fire alarm now, not just the sound of anxious staff and frightened patients, but clear, authoritative voices barking at each other.

Her feet crunch on the gravel. Almost there. Almost free.

Spencer's car is less than a hundred yards away, stationary with the engine running, but there's a police car coming up the drive at high speed and Grace is suddenly so afraid that it's difficult to force herself onwards. If they stop her, Boyd will die. It's all she can think about.

The police car passes Spencer's vehicle and comes to a rapid halt on the crescent-shaped stretch of gravel in front of the building, its driver and passenger alighting swiftly and heading towards the main door now well behind Grace. Still masked by the people milling around her, Grace is able to escape their notice, and she starts towards Spencer's car, trying her best not to attract any unnecessary attention to herself by moving too quickly.

She's almost at the now-open passenger door when a cry goes up behind her. "Doctor Foley…!"

-oOo-

"I'm sorry, Spence," she says abruptly. There's been a tense, stiff silence between them since they swapped vehicles in Romford, Spencer parking down a side street close to a small industrial estate and then emulating his former superior by rapidly acquiring one of those no-questions-asked vehicles of distinctly dubious heritage that Grace is beginning to think every criminal and detective in London must have some kind of supernatural ability to obtain when necessary. She reaches out to pat his arm. "You've done so much for me already, now this…"

He makes a sharp, dismissive noise and keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. "I really don't wanna think about it, Grace. There goes my pension."

There's not much else she can say. They both know the potential consequences of what they're doing. She glances restlessly at her watch. Tiptree isn't far away, but the shadows are getting longer with every passing minute, and it won't be long before the sun finally dips below the treeline to their left. Forcing a very neutral tone, she says, "If this… doesn't go well…"

"I'm not discussing it," Spencer says curtly.

"Spence…"

"No, Grace."

"I just wanted to say – "

"No," he says again, sounding so like Boyd that she nearly winces. "We'd better start thinking about changing seats. It can't be far to the airfield now."

-oOo-

There's a short access road to the airfield through the trees, its concrete cracked and scoured by many, many winters. Plainly, it sees very little use, but down by the rusty metal gate that prevents vehicle access to the small former RAF base there's an elderly blue Vauxhall parked snugly under the trees. Even if the car hadn't exactly matched the description of the vehicle seen speeding away down the Shellness road back on Sheppey, Grace would have automatically assumed it belonged to Rowse. Parking Spencer's recently-acquired scruffy hatchback behind it, she switches off the engine and unconsciously takes a deep breath.

Slowly opening the car door, she's struck by how very quiet it is, just a few snatches of birdsong and the faint rustling of leaves disturbing the tranquil silence. Fading light. Autumn chill in the air. Getting out of the car, she thinks she should feel an oppressive sense of destiny, but she doesn't, not really. She feels tired in a numb, subdued sort of way; tired and apprehensive. Not even properly scared. She's a long, long way past that.

She just wants it to be over. No more running, no more fear. Mechanically, she follows Rowse's earlier instructions and switches her phone back on. There's a weak signal. It's enough.

Climbing over the locked gate isn't easy, but Grace manages it, and she starts to walk steadily along the strip of broken concrete that leads towards what once must have been the airfield's control tower. She can almost picture aggressive rows of Spitfires and Hurricanes lined up alongside what remains of the wartime runway. The encroaching trees that now give the place a very quiet, secluded feel must have been much smaller in the airfield's heyday – if they even existed at all. She wonders if the fatal shot will come as she walks. Part of her hopes it will.

Ahead, she can see smaller derelict structures. Barracks, she assumes. Barracks, offices, mess-rooms. All the facilities required for the pilots and mechanics who once lived and worked here. It doesn't look as if the buildings will continue to stand for many more winters. It won't be long before they collapse in on themselves and the spreading dark ivy takes over completely.

There's an old abandoned car a little way from the crumbling buildings. Very old, 'sixties or even earlier. Grace is no expert. Tyres perished, flat and split; glass gone, bodywork slowly rusting away. The underlying chassis must still be reasonably sound, though, because that's what Rowse has chained Boyd to. Nothing fancy as far as Grace can see, just a tight loop of steel links wrapped around his ankle and secured by a heavy padlock. He looks rather like a goat staked out as live bait for a tiger. It's probably not the best analogy under the circumstances. He's very much alive, though, because he's on his feet and he's tugging furiously at the chain with both hands, as if he somehow imagines he can break it loose from the chassis by sheer brute force alone.

It's the way Boyd is fighting so stubbornly for his freedom that finally jerks Grace out of her strange, dreamlike state. He hasn't given up, and neither, she realises, has she. She breaks into a run, ignoring the fierce protest of aching muscles and joints, and she shouts, "Boyd… Boyd!"

Letting go of the chain, he wheels round to face her, a vivid mix of emotions quite evident in his expression – surprise, anger, fear. So many conflicting things. There's a bloody gash above his eyebrow and his temple is bruised, but he seems otherwise unharmed. He strains towards her, pulling furiously against the links securing him. "Grace. Oh, for fuck's sake… _Grace_…"

Again, she expects to hear a shot ring out; absolutely expects the final shot that will forever separate them to come just before they can touch – an exquisite twist of cruelty – but to her astonishment it doesn't. Not as she launches towards him, not as he clumsily catches her. Not even as they cling fiercely to each other in the dwindling twilight.

"Why?" he asks her, his face buried in her hair.

Grace grips him as tightly as she can, putting everything she has left into the embrace, and she hoarsely echoes his words from the previous night back at him. "You know why."

Her phone starts to ring.

-oOo-

"Are you ready, Grace?" the quiet voice asks. "It's time."

She jerks the phone from her ear, pulls her arm back to throw it as far away from her as she can, but Boyd grabs her wrist and shakes his head. It's enough. Swallowing hard, she puts the phone back to her ear. "Just do it. Finish it."

"Oh, Grace, you disappoint me," Rowse chides. "No. We're going to do this properly, you and I."

"Please," she says wearily. "You've got what you wanted, Michael. Do it. Kill me."

"Do you see the trees ahead of you at the end of the runway?" he asks her, ignoring the entreaty. "You have five minutes to reach them. Then we start."

Unwilling to pander to any more of his whims, Grace shakes her head obstinately. "No."

"No?" Rowse says, his tone deceptively mild. The sudden dead silence in her ear tells her he's ended the call.

Her refusal proves to be a serious mistake. As she lowers the phone and stares at it in bemusement, a staccato gunshot shatters the tranquillity of the evening, but it's the sound of the unexpected roar of shock and pain from Boyd not the reverberating echo that instantly seems to turn Grace's blood to ice. He still has an arm around her waist, and although the bullet's impact throws him off-balance, for the split second before he releases her, Grace feels as if she's supporting his entire weight. Alomost immediately, however, Boyd drops away from her, clutching his thigh desperately as he hits the scoured concrete and rolls onto his side. Grace can't move, just stares stupidly at the dark blood welling thickly between his fingers, at the rapidly spreading stain below his grasping hands. The gunshot's last echoes are slowly dying away and all she can hear is the cawing of startled crows and the sound of Boyd's rapid, heavy breathing.

Instinct drives her down onto her knees, and for a moment her gaze locks with his. He's already pale, and there are beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes, though… His eyes are wild and frantic, full of agony. Too many things are racing through her mind. She chokes out, "Spence. Spence is coming."

Boyd grunts, and her phone starts to ring again. A huge surge of rage forces yet more adrenaline into her system, and she answers quickly with a forceful, "You _bastard_…"

"You've got five minutes to get to the trees," Rowse instructs equably. "If you're not on your feet and moving in two, I'll put a bullet in his other leg."

"Please…" Grace all-but screams into the phone. "Michael, _please_…"

"Get up and start running, Grace," he says serenely. "If you don't make it to the trees in five, I'll shoot him in the head."

-oOo-

It's for Boyd, not herself, of course, that Grace stumbles blindly into the trees with what she imagines are only seconds left to spare. She's sobbing and panting, her chest feels as if it's on fire and her legs are so weak that they instantly give way under her. Beneath the trees the ground is soft and damp, rich with the earthy smell of leaf mould. Spent, Grace curls up where she is, her whole body trembling with shock, effort and fear. It's only seconds before her phone starts to ring again. Stupidly obedient now, she fumbles it out of her pocket, her hand shaking as she tries to depress the correct button.

"Well done, Grace," Rowse says. Strangely, he sounds more as if he's genuinely trying to encourage her than as if he's gloating. "It's all up to you now. If you can find your way to the road, you might just have a chance. A slim chance, but a chance."

"Boyd…" she manages.

"Has nearly served his purpose," he says with no trace of emotion. "Step out of the trees where I can see you. Now."

Fearing the consequences of refusing to obey, Grace drags herself back to her feet and retraces her steps until she's just on the edge of the trees. Ahead of her, she can clearly see the outline of the derelict control tower against the deep darkness beyond, and she has no doubt that's his vantage point. She wonders if he's using a night scope.

"Good," Rowse says, a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice. "In a moment, you're going to put your phone down and you're going to smash it. If you don't…"

"I understand," she says dully.

"Good," he says again. "I'm on my way now, Grace. Good luck. Don't forget – the phone."

Silence. When she's sure he's not going to say anything else, Grace unclenches her fingers and the phone drops with a soft thud. Hard ground would be more effective, but it doesn't matter. She stamps on it anyway, once, twice, three times. Her last possible connection to the real world gone, she simply turns and walks back into the trees, not caring about direction as she puts one foot mechanically in front of the other.

It's over. Everything. All of it.

She sits down on a mouldering tree stump. Looks up at the patches of night sky she can see between twigs and branches that are just beginning to drop their leaves. The first few brightly glittering stars have just started to appear.

Grace is not inclined to morbid introspection, has very rarely given any serious thought to the end of her life. A few times when she was ill and the future looked bleak and extremely uncertain, perhaps, but not much thought before or since. Somewhere in the back of her mind there has always been a mild expectation that her death would be a quiet, uneventful sort of thing. A peaceful, painless slipping away at the end of a long, productive and generally very satisfying life.

"_What the fuck are you doing?"_ Boyd's brusque voice asks her. She blinks, startled, and looks round, but she's completely alone under the trees. _"Get up, Grace. You heard him, if you can make it to the road…"_

"Go away, Boyd," she mutters wearily to the empty air. "I'm exhausted."

There's no answer. He's not there with her; no-one's there with her. It's just her.

Her and Rowse.

She has more of a chance than he realises, Grace thinks suddenly, because Spencer's out there somewhere, making his way steadily through the trees from the place on the road where they parted company. Spencer's out there, and he's armed. Maybe she doesn't _have_ to find the road, maybe she just has to evade the hunter just long enough for him to become the hunted…

Forcing herself to her feet, Grace does what she does best. She thinks.

-oOo-

Rowse is a predator, and he understands the actions and reactions of his prey. Frightened prey does one of three very predictable things – it freezes, rendered completely incapable of doing anything, it runs for its life, or, far more rarely, if it's cornered it will attempt a last, desperate fightback. However, Grace is not just prey, she is a psychologist, a criminal psychologist, and just as Rowse understands his prey, she understands the mind of the predator stalking her. She understands that any real hope of survival depends on her a making a fourth choice.

She can't outrun him, can't outfight him, and simply lying down and accepting the inevitable has ceased to be an option. She's moving through the trees as carefully as she can, her focus entirely on caution not speed. Grace is well aware of her limitations, and accordingly she knows exactly what she's looking for. The darkness makes it considerably more difficult, but there's cold moonlight filtering down through the canopy now, and her eyes are well-adjusted. Almost every individual step she takes is deliberately considered, her attention all on leaving as little trace of her presence as possible.

There's no doubt that Rowse is gaining on her with every minute that ticks past, but Grace refuses to let the knowledge force her into making a stupid, potentially fatal mistake. Something has taken hold inside her, a strong, implacable will to do everything she possibly can to survive. For herself and for Boyd. She won't let herself even begin to think that it might be too late for him already, even if Rowse doesn't shoot him again. Boyd is just too stubborn to die easily. She has to believe that, however haunted she is by the memory of the amount of blood soaking into his jeans as he lay ashen on the ground fumbling to tighten his belt around his leg as an improvised tourniquet.

The much sought-after fourth choice suddenly appears right in front of her. A solid old beech tree with some low, sturdy branches, the base of its wide trunk completely surrounded by brambles and bracken. Grace isn't going to run and she isn't going to fight; Grace is going to attempt to hide until help arrives, and she's going to do it in the very last place she hopes even an extraordinarily shrewd hunter would initially think to look for a small, slight woman whose sixtieth birthday is little more than a distant and faded memory.

-oOo-

The temperature is dropping slowly but inexorably as the night takes firm hold. Almost fifteen feet above the ground, Grace is shivering violently as she clings tightly to the rough tree trunk. Only tightly clenching her jaw stops her teeth chattering. There are new, unnatural noises in the woodland now, noises that are very definitely human in origin. Rowse or Spencer, or quite possibly both. They aren't close, those noises, not yet, but they are strange and terrifying just the same. Part of her, driven by primitive instinct, wants to slither down from her unsafe perch and take to its heels. It's incredibly strong, the instinct to flee, but Grace knows that if she does, she's a dead woman. No doubt about that. Rowse will hear her and then he will quickly and relentlessly run her to ground. She knows the tragic stories of all his previous victims.

No more, she suddenly thinks angrily. If she survives this horror, then she doesn't want anything more to do with crime, criminals or the judiciary system. For far too many years she's been exposed to the very worst things human beings are capable of. She's seen some terrible, terrible things, and heard of many even worse. She's seen hardened detectives break down and cry at some of the awful scenes they've witnessed; she's seen good men – men like Boyd – reach shakily for the bottle when everything became too much. Even the strongest of people has a breaking point. This may be hers.

She'll go to New Zealand with him. The practicalities don't matter. She'll go to New Zealand, move into his nice house in Pakuranga and they'll walk along the shoreline together in the evenings. Maybe she'll do some volunteer work. Maybe she'll –

Her thoughts are shattered by the sound of a shot, and Grace jumps and starts to shiver even more violently. If she never, ever hears another gunshot it will be far, far too soon. It doesn't end with one shot, however, because it's followed by a second, and then a third.

_Spencer._

She can hear shouting; indistinct but very definitely shouting. Another shot follows, and then another.

Surely there must be someone close enough to hear the shots and call the police? Surely even in such a rural area, so many gunshots won't be attributed to pest control or whatever else it is that people in the countryside legitimately do with firearms?

Something – some_one_ – is heading her way, and fast. Grace can hear noisy rustling, the loud cracking of twigs underfoot. Rowse or Spencer?

Somewhere off to the right she hears a shout of, "Towards the fence! He's going towards the fence!"

Spencer. And – thank God – it seems he isn't alone.

"Close him down," the answering roar goes up in the dark. "Fuck's sake, Spence, close him down…"

Boyd.

The sense of relief is dizzying. Overpowering. The hows and whys don't matter. Boyd is alive and somehow he is with Spencer, and between them –

There's another deafening exchange of gunfire, much closer this time. So close, in fact, that Grace sees at least one bright orange muzzle flash through the tangle of branches.

A figure runs beneath her, a slim, light-footed figure dressed in dark clothes. The details are impossible to pick out in the dark, but it's not a handgun he's armed with, it's a rifle. Rowse.

Grace freezes against the bole of the tree, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. If something makes him glance up now…

There's another tremendous bang, another fiery muzzle flash, and there's a guttural yell and suddenly Rowse is down and rolling in the bracken just a little way from Grace's hiding place. She can barely see him, but she can hear him, and she also hears Spencer's triumphant shout of, "He's down! He's fucking _down_…!"

Down, but not finished. Rowse fires once, twice, three times into the dark, and the third shot evidently finds a target, because Grace hears a raw bellow of pain – Spencer's – followed by cursing and then a moment of unexpected and eerie silence.

It doesn't last. Rowse is staggering drunkenly to his feet, crashing through the bracken and the brambles, heading away from her, completely oblivious to her presence, and behind him there are suddenly renewed sounds of pursuit.

It's Boyd's voice that shouts, "Police! Stand still and drop your weapon!"

Why he bothers with the warning, Grace isn't sure, because he fires almost simultaneously. Rowse yells again, a brutal, animal sound of pure agony, and though she can no longer see him, she hears him fall, hears him still desperately trying to claw his way onwards. A dark shadow emerges from the trees nearby, a tall, inexorable shadow that moves neither fast nor gracefully. Boyd.

He fires again and all the wild scrabbling sounds from Rowse's direction abruptly cease.

Grace tries to call out, but her throat is so constricted with fear that she barely manages a breathless squeak. It's too late anyway. Boyd is moving slowly past her, his gait halting and uneven, and for a moment, as he raises his gun and implacably takes aim, she can see him very clearly in the moonlight; a silent and terrifying symbol of judgement and retribution. Grace squeezes her eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see the dénouement, but though she doesn't see the final shot, it's so close and so loud that it almost makes her scream.

Then there's just the soft sound of the breeze stirring the trees.

-oOo-

It's like a scene from a warzone. The arc lamps and the heavy-duty torches are pitiless, exposing every tiny detail of the carnage. Rowse lies on his front, head to one side and one arm still defiantly reaching out towards his fallen rifle; his dark combat clothing hides most of his injuries but the side of his skull shattered by exit of the final bullet is a pulpy mass of hair, blood, brain tissue and bone. Wrapped in a blanket, but still shivering, Grace imagines he is watching her reproachfully, his light grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. Every time she looks away, her gaze is quickly drawn back to him. If she's subconsciously afraid he will close his fingers around his rifle and continue on his relentless mission, there's really nothing left to worry about. The terrifying predator is very, very dead.

Not so Boyd and Spencer. The former is still being attended to by anxious paramedics, but the latter has already been taken from the scene on a stretcher, his shattered shoulder hidden under multiple layers of dressings. The fact that he was able to give her a weak grin as he was carried away is enough to reassure her, however. Spencer Jordan, like his former commanding officer, is a very tough man indeed.

"Doctor Foley?" Hewitt says quietly, interrupting her reverie. "You should go with the paramedics now. The SOCOs are here, and we need to clear the area."

For the first time Grace sees him for what he really is. Not a buffoon or a monster, but a weary, over-worked man trying to do his best in extremely difficult circumstances. She even finds herself feeling genuinely sorry for him. Soon, there will be plenty of questions he will have to find plausible answers to. She asks, "Can I go with Boyd?"

"Not up to me, but I don't see why not."

Grace studies him carefully and then says, "You know he killed Rowse, don't you?"

Nothing in Hewitt's expression changes. "I know what Jordan told me, Doctor, and I have no reason to doubt the word of a fellow police officer. The ballistics report will confirm that Jordan's gun fired the fatal shot, and if it raises any other questions, I'm sure any apparent… inconsistencies… between the forensics and the witness statements can be easily explained by the sheer amount of confusion generated in the dark."

"Thank you," she says, meaning it.

"For what?" he asks her brusquely, turning away. Over his shoulder, he adds less harshly, "Probably best if Boyd goes straight back to New Zealand just as soon as he's fit enough to fly, hmm?"

Grace nods solemnly, and Hewitt walks away to address one of the uniformed officers stringing fluttering blue and white police tape between the trees. Pulling the blanket more firmly around her shoulders, she picks her way slowly towards Boyd, not at all surprised to discover that the makeshift tourniquet has been removed from his leg and replaced by dressings or that he's already being given intravenous fluids. The paramedics are working calmly and competently, their quiet professionalism incredibly reassuring. Like Spencer, Boyd looks pale and shadowy in the harsh artificial light, but he, too, manages the barest ghost of a smile as she reaches his side.

For once, Grace can't find any words. So she simply leans down and gently kisses his forehead.

It's almost always been all the words left unspoken between them that have been the most important.

* * *

_Continued…_


	4. Chapter 4 Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It's not the prettiest place she's seen during her stay, but nevertheless Grace has fallen just a little in love with the Tamaki River, and she's beginning to realise just how much she'll miss wandering along its shores when she returns to London. It's not just the scenery she's going to miss, she thinks wryly as she spots the tall figure ambling slowly in her direction. The broad shoulders and the gleaming silver hair are very distinctive. She'd recognise him anywhere, in any crowd and at any distance, but the once-familiar gait is markedly different nowadays. Still powerful enough, but short on the right leg. Physiotherapy has helped, but it's the considered opinion of all the doctors he's seen over the long months of recuperation that Boyd will never again walk without a noticeable limp. The injury was very bad, and he is not a young man, they say. There's nothing more they can do for him. He is dismissive about it, bears the pain and the inconvenience with grumpy stoicism, but for Grace that limp is a permanent reminder of the grim few days when her world became a very frightening and confusing place.

She starts to walk towards him, but Boyd impatiently waves her down, just as she expects, so instead she simply turns towards the water and looks out towards Wai O Taiki Bay. She's going to miss Auckland. It hardly seems possible that in less than twenty-four hours she'll be on her way back to England. Alone.

She can't stay. Over the course of the last six weeks Grace has grudgingly come to realise that. Practical difficulties of visas and work permits aside, there's just too much still tying her to England. Friends, family, career. Things she once thought she'd be able to walk away from without a single qualm. In a way it doesn't help that Boyd seems to understand her predicament almost better than she does. She wants him to rage and storm and sulk, wants him to force her to sacrifice everything for him. He won't. She knows he won't.

_If you love something, set it free…_

She sneers silently. Stupid. Banal potted philosophy for the masses.

He appears at her shoulder abruptly, the sand deadening his footsteps, and she looks round at him with a deliberately sardonic smile. "Good day at the office, darling?"

"Oh, stop it," he grumbles, slipping an arm easily around her waist. "Playing the dutiful wife really doesn't suit you."

She leans comfortably against him. "Good thing we're not married, then, isn't it?"

"Bloody good thing," he agrees, but it's clear his heart isn't really in it. Instead of continuing the banter, he asks gruffly, "You more-or-less finished packing?"

They will compromise. Phone calls and extended visits. Far from ideal. Better than nothing. She nods. "More-or-less. Why? Are you taking somewhere incredibly expensive for dinner tonight?"

Boyd drops his head to kiss the side of her neck. The soft bristle of his beard against her skin makes her shiver. "Nice try, Grace. Nice try."

He's very definitely pensive. Not in the mood for games, she asks, "Well?"

Ingenuously, he says, "Hmm?"

Grace sighs pointedly. "I know you far too well, Boyd. Out with it."

He looks up at the sky for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Eventually he says, "I've tendered my resignation."

It's the last thing she expected to hear. Astonished, she stares at him. "What?"

"I've resigned."

"Why?" she demands, still not quite able to process the unanticipated news.

He snorts. "Stupid bloody question. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" she asks bluntly, pulling away from him. "Because we've been here before, remember?"

He gazes at her sedately. "Things are different this time."

"You say that _now_, but – "

"Trust me. London's our home, Grace," he tells her, reaching out to take her hands. "Yours _and_ mine. It's a done deal. I finish up here in six weeks, and after that I'll be on the first available flight back. We'll buy a house together, sort everything out properly."

The years may have mellowed him a little, but at heart he's still an impulsive, dogmatic sort of creature. Both amused and irritated by his automatic assumption, Grace raises her eyebrows at him. "We will, will we?"

He lifts her hands in his, rests them against his chest. "Mm. We'll live in sin together and grow old disgracefully."

It has a certain appeal. Still, she's not prepared to simply capitulate. Not yet. "We're already old, Boyd."

He grins abruptly, the irrepressible mischief quite clear in his dark eyes. "Speak for yourself."

Grace doesn't rise to it. He's never let her forget those few inconsequential years between them in all the time they've known each other, and she can't imagine that he ever will. It amuses him far, far too much. Better just to ignore him. "And that's it, is it? Our entire future decided, just like that?"

"Yes," he says emphatically.

"Do I get a say in any of this?" Grace inquires in a deliberately casual tone.

Boyd feigns a scandalised expression. "Of _course_ you do, Grace. I just may not bother listening to whatever it _is_ you've got to say."

Incorrigible old rogue. She can't help adoring him. Then, she's always had a bit of a weakness for bad boys. Particularly the ones who turn out to have hearts of gold. She shrugs. "No change there, then."

Boyd is grinning down at her again, still mischievous, but affectionate, too. Something in him has changed. He's never going to be content to sit by the fireside quietly growing old, but there's a burgeoning acceptance of the unavoidable in him that was notably missing before. He seems to have found some kind of equilibrium and Grace is glad, not just for herself, but for him, too. He's not quite at peace with himself yet, but perhaps he's finally heading in the right direction. Looking up at him, she says, "All right. But this is it, Boyd – no more second chances."

"Trust me," he says again, lowering his head to kiss her gently. "_Aroha mai, aroha atu_, Grace."

Turning in his arms, she settles back against his chest. She smiles as she gazes at Wai O Taiki Bay again. She's done her research. She says smugly, "'Love is reciprocal'."

He rests his chin on her shoulder. "Close enough."

_- the end -_

* * *

_Aroha mai, aroha atu_ – Māori proverb/concept. _"Love towards us, love going out from us". Love goes forth, love comes back. Give love, get love. The endless circle of love._


End file.
